We have always been a tight family.
My grandmother, on my mother's side, had three children. My mother was the eldest.
The other two were twins.
My Uncle and Aunt, the twins, choose to remain in the Washington D.C. area, close to their
Virginia roots, whereas my Mother married a Yankee she met while attending Storer College
in West Virgina and end up in Pennsylvania.
With the family somewhat scattered, part of the joy of summer were the get-togethers.
Actually, part of the joy of summers still is the get togethers with those portions
of my family that remain close to the family roots in the Virginia/Washington D.C. area.
Fanny was my grandmother. Everybody says I look just like her, especially now that I
am ....ummm...matuiring.
But the similarities stop at the facial resemblence. She never hit much above five
feet. A leg injury gave her a bit of a sailor's gait. And she was the
lowest-to-the-ground bundle of love I have ever encountered.
She worked as a cook and domestic in a little hotel in Virginia, where I spent some of the
happiest days of my life visiting. It was a throw back in some ways to antebellum
times. Big porches, people sitting in the breeze rocking. Hidden passage ways
that could take you the back way through the hotel.
For me, playing there, was better than having access to a fun house.
And with the money she earned, looking out for the needs of others, she took care of the
needs of her family. She sent all three of her children through college. All
were Storer College graduates. She scrubbed, cooked, made up beds and waited on people,
but she wanted more for her own children and she got it.
One summer, as the whole family was drawn back to its Virginia roots by what seemed to be
a seasonal magnet, a plan was made to journey to Harpers Ferry, West Virginia
to revisit Storer College.
It was all of Fanny's kids, as well as Fanny's kids, kids. The second generation as
we lovingly call ourselves.
I am the oldest of the second generation. And from me, we stair-step down in
two-year increments.
Next in line to me is my cousin Denise. At the time of this visit, we were the only
members of the second generation to make our appearance on this earth.
As spoiled as I was as the first grandson, and first newphew, Denise was equally
spoiled as the first granddaughter and first neice.
>From the beginning, we had a way of picking on one another. Since I was two
years older, I had more of a chance to master the fine art of aggravation and I practiced
it at every opportunity I had.
Sometimes it was just a poke or a push. Not enough to hurt or injure, just enough to
torment. I did not have a sister to fuss with. Denise was the next best
thing, and she could give as well as she could take.
This particular summer the campus of Storer College was beautiful. The graceful old
school, one of the first Afro-American institutes of higher learning, was situated right
up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Potomac River flows at its feet.
If you can not feel God when you are on that campus you never will.
John Browns fort, at that time was situated right on the campus, full of memorabilia, of
the wars that raged to gain freedom for an enslaved people.
On this day, Fanny was the matriarch of the gathering. All were gathered around her.
Her kids were enjoying their time back on campus, looking around and relating
stories of their days on campus.
Denise and I were playing in the shade of a picnic table. We had crawled into the
cool grass that lay beneath it's slotted top. Light came down to us in beams. Little
fingers of light through each of the table's slots.
Although we teased and tortured one another, we really loved each other. Could not
wait to get together, and then, could not wait to get apart. This was one of those
getting apart days.
Somewhere down the line our gleeful play transformed like Mr. Jeckyl into Mr. Hyde.
I do not remember how it all started, but I certainly remember how it all ended.
I was not paying much attention to Denise when she grabbed my arm. I wasn't even
paying much attention when she pulled it towards her. But she certainly had my full
attention when she sunk her teeth into it!
Yep, my cousin bit me. Hard and deep. I fought hard to keep those tears back
... masculine thing you know. But they started to flow, and once that floodgate was
opened, there was no shutting it off.
I stood up so fast, I banged my head on the table top. That started a new source of
convulsed tears.
"What's wrong," my mom and dad asked. The same question was asked by the
assembly of aunts and uncles.
I could not speak. I could not explain. I just held my arm up for all to see.
And there...living proof of the transgression that had been worked upon
me..was a perfect set of dental imprints that belonged to my Cousin Denise.
She had left a distinct impression upon me.
I will never forget that day under the picnic table. The bite marks long have left
my arm, but their memories linger on.
This may have been the first but it was far from being the last impression made upon me.
In no particular order, other impressions include my first kiss, going offf from home,
buying my first car, getting my first job, and marrying my first, and only wife.
These all made impressions, but a real lasting impression was made that tops the list.
The bite marks were not that much of a distant memory.
It was Sunday morning. Every week, I listened to the invitation issued by the pastor
as I sat curled up against my grandmother (this was my father's mother this time) in the
familiar wooden pew.
Most weeks he would issue a plea to come to Christ and nobody moved from their favorite
positions in the church.
But this week was different. He issued the plea, and it almost felt like my feet had
a life of their own. They pushed past my grandmother to the aisle. Before I
even realized where I was heading, I was standing at the altar. More tears came
streaming down my young cheeks than when my cousin Denise bit me. God had grabbed
hold of my heart, ordered my steps, and lead to His son Jesus Christ.
Oh what an impression that made on me. Soon I was joined at the altar by my parents.
Tears of joy were streaming down their cheeks as they chaperoned their young son
who had come to Christ. My grandmother was at my side too. It was a family
gathering at the chuirch altar, as God made a lasting impression on one of his young ones.
It did not take the form of teeth marks on my arm. No, it was a burning in my
heart.
The realization even at that young age that I had been touched. I knew that I had
been changed. I was not perfect from that point to now, but every time I strayed off
track, Jesus steered me back, because He had left an impression on me, even
longer-lasting and more indelible than my cousin Denise's bite.
God's impression not only was on me but it was in the Lamb's book of life.
When He registered my salvation, He also marked me by placing the Holy Spirit
inside of me.
That was an impression that never faded away. There were times I may have tried to
ignore it, but never could I forget it. A lasting impression had been made.
Years have past. Now Denise and I, in our new found roles as adults, joke
about the childhood torment we placed each other through. In maturity, we both
realize it was nothing more than sibling rivilry of a cousinly type.
But I can not think about Denise without smiling and remembering the impression,
literally, she made upon me as a young girl, when I was a young boy.
Nor can I think about Jesus, without smiling, and remembering the impression He too made
upon me, that still can be felt .
Has Jesus made an impression upon you! If so, I hope it has been a lasting
impression
Teeth marks eventually fade away. Jesus's touch is forever
