Memories of My Grandmother

I attended a Venda-speaking church in Limpopo Province this past Sunday. They had a dual-language service, with translation into English or Venda (depending on the speaker), but the songs were completely in Venda. The song books they used simply had the lyrics to the songs with English translations under them. They were truly beautiful songs, and I gained an appreciation for the beauty of Venda that morning.

Sitting behind me a few rows back was one woman who belted out the songs as loudly as she could with great zeal and enthusiasm. I could not help but be comforted by that.

My Grandmother Faye would always sing loudly in church. When I say loud, I mean loud. I remember as child whenever we would visit my grandparents, I was always so embarrassed by my grandmother. You could always hear her. Sometimes she was louder than the whole rest of the congregation combined! On long notes, her voice would ebb and rise and grow louder still until you wondered whether she was still singing, or whether she had started screaming (or at least that was what I wondered back then).

Later, I had come to be more tolerant of my grandmother's exuberance. In fact, I came to not be embarrassed by it, but proud of it, inspired by it. She didn't have the same self-doubt I had. I'm always so self-conscious about what others may think of me, that I sometimes shy away from doing what I want to do. My grandmother sang her heart out.

Now that she's gone, that is one of the memories of her that still sticks in my mind more clearly than most all others.

As I listened to this Venda woman belting out songs in a completely foreign language on a continent on the other side of the world, I was brought back to memories of my Grandmother Faye. I couldn't help but smile, and sing along with the Venda as best I could manage (but still not so loud).