“God please keep me, so I can raise these orphans.”
Those were the words of my grandma as I’d hear her praying in the midnight hours. I used to get angry, because she woke me up with her prayers, back then I didn’t know the reason for her prayers.
As time passed, we grew older, and so did she. When she was ill, she’d weep to the Lord, crying out, “Lord, if you take me now, who will look after these children?”
Her prayers would always be answered by her recovery. I grew to understand the Lord because of her prayers. I began to see that there is power in prayer.
Years went by she was now too old to attend church. She only prayed at home. My heroine grew even older. At the age of ninety-five she forgot to pray, it was now our time to pray for her.
I asked the Lord to keep her for me, for us. I’d reason with God, telling Him that I want to atleast bury her. I pleaded with him to heal her of all sicknesses. I begged God to make her stronger than her age. Every time I prayed, I’d include my granny in my prayers.
“God please keep my granny for me. Protect her Lord, until I find a job of my own,” I’d pray, hoping the Lord would grant me my wishes. Indeed he listened to my prayers.
At the age of ninety-nine, she began to forget our names. She forgot who we were and that broke my heart. It pained in a way that I prayed even harder, because now I knew her time to leave us was near.
I remember when I visited her, she’d greet me everytime I entered the house, “Wandi, kutheni ungandibulisanga (why didn’t you greet me?)” She’d ask, surprised that I visited.
“Ndikubulisile nje makhulu (I greeted you grandma)” I’d say with a smile and sadness, “The one woman I loved with my whole heart was fading away.”
Though she forgot our names I’d tell her who I was, and she’d be very happy that her grandchild was in front of her.
“Wandi-Wandi nguwe kanti? (Wandi-Wandi is that you?)” she’d ask with a surprised expression.
“Ndim makhulu. (It’s me, grandma)” I’d reply with a smile. We’d chat and she’d ask me some questions, and I’d answer them without getting tired.
I was far away from home when I heard she was ill.
“She doesn’t eat,” my aunt reported.
“She’ll be alright aunt, it’s just old age,” I said.
“God will heal her,” I said, with a cracking voice.
“I’m losing hope. It’s been a week now,” my aunt said, exhausted.
“Don’t give up hope, Grandma will recover, just like she always does,” I said comforting her.
“God please heal my grandma! If you don’t heal her, I will never forgive you.”
I cried out in my prayers. I knew I wasn’t in a place to make demands to God.
A week later, before Christmas, I got a call informing me that my grandma had passed away.
It felt like betrayal. I felt like God betrayed me. I asked Him to keep her for me, but He chose to steal her. My heart broke into million pieces, I wept like a woman. I didn’t care if they say men don’t cry, I cried like a little girl.
He took her before Christmas. I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. I didn’t even touch her hands for the last time. Even now, I feel betrayed. God first took my mother from me, the following year after my mother’s passing, and he took my father. Now He has taken the only parent I’ve ever known.
If God was fair, He would have kept her alive. I would still see her beautiful smile even now, but God betrayed me. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him.
God betrayed me.
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