Inspiration Words: Mercy and Bond
I ended the call with my mom and climbed into my bed. I’d been trying to call her more frequently, after what happened. Inside the mosquito net, I felt like maybe I could hide from my roommates. It was the middle of the day, but since it was a Saturday, having one or more of us taking a nap in our beds was not unusual.
My three roommates kept playing their computer game and didn’t seem to notice that I hadn’t joined in again. I put in my headphones and turned the music up, hoping the strong beat would drown the shooting from the game and numb the ache growing inside of me.
All of my first memories are with my grandma. She cooked for me, played with me, and took me shopping with her. She scolded me when I was bad—which was often, and she told me I would be fine when I cried.
In primary school, I took the bus to school every morning and home every evening. One evening, I wasn’t paying attention and I got on the wrong bus. When I realized it was the wrong bus, I didn’t know what to do. I stayed on until the bus stopped, and the bus driver asked me where I lived. After I told him, he told me to wait for him on the bench at the bus stop. I sat and waited, wishing Grandma were there. She would know what to do.
When the bus driver came back, he had a motorcycle and he told me to get on the back. I obeyed, and he drove me home. The wind was strong, but I held on to the back of the motorcycle just like my dad had taught me when he took me on his motorcycle for the first time two years before.
When we arrived at my house, Grandma was standing in the doorway. She asked the bus driver what happened, and he explained that I got on the wrong bus. Grandma looked at me for a moment before wrapping her arms around me, “Next time, be more careful about which bus you take.” Her voice was stern, but she hugged me tightly, and I was glad Grandma was always here to watch out for me.
Since Grandma was a Christian, she often told me stories about Jesus and the great things He did on Earth and the mercy He offered to people. When I was young, everything made sense. But then I went to school and realized that the stories Grandma told me were just nice stories. No man could really do those things Grandma told me about.
In middle school, my parents sent me to boarding school, and I only got to see Grandma on the weekends. They said it would be good for me, because I would learn independence and I would be able to focus on my schoolwork. I didn’t tell anyone, but I was mad at my parents. I wanted to keep living with Grandma. She understood me, and she cooked me the food I liked—her spicy duck was the best. When I went home, she always cooked my favorite dishes. No matter what happened at school—if my friends were mean to me or if I’d done badly on a test, I knew I could always count on a big hug the second I walked in the door on Friday nights. She would reprimand me for making a mess as I devoured her duck wings and would throw a napkin at me as I wiped my dirty fingers on my shirt. She rolled her eyes, but sometimes I saw a glimpse of a smile before she turned away.
High school meant another boarding school, but since this one was farther away, I could only see Grandma once a month. Still, every time I went home, she made my favorite steamed buns and spicy duck.
Now that I’m in university, I haven’t seen Grandma for more than a month. My parents pushed me to go to this university that’s bigger and farther away from home. By this point, I knew better than to disagree, but I still miss Grandma. Our bond wasn’t as strong as when I was little, but I know she loved me up to the end, and even though I never told her, I also loved her.
I tried not to think about the spicy duck and Grandma’s hugs, but it’s hard not to think about something when you’re trying so hard not to think about it. I wished I could cry, but I just let the pounding in my ears match the scream in my heart. Maybe I would feel better if I went outside. But I didn’t move.
For the first time in years, I thought about Grandma’s faith. She used to tell me that after she died, she was going to go to Heaven to be with Jesus. That was His mercy—if we believe that He died for our sins, we could be with Him in Heaven. If anyone deserves to be with Jesus, I believe with all my heart that Grandma deserves it. But she would have said no one deserves to be with Him. He is perfect, and we all do bad things. I wanted to ask about the bad things Grandma had done, but I didn’t.
Is she with Jesus now? If she’s with Him, can she still see me? Can she still cook spicy duck in Heaven? Does anyone there think it tastes as good as I know it is? Does Jesus eat spicy duck? Grandma said He wasn’t Chinese, so maybe He wouldn’t like Chinese food? I think He must like it. Everyone likes Grandma’s spicy duck.