Summers remind me of my grandmother. Granner, as we lovingly called her, took care of my sister and me every summer.

Going to Granner’s and Papa’s home was something we looked forward to all year long. It was more than the excitement of boarding an airplane by ourselves and making the trip to Phoenix. It was being in their home all summer that was the real delight.

Papa was a preacher and Granner was a pastor’s wife. They had purchased a tiny tract home in a new neighborhood of Phoenix called Maryvale. Papa used the tiny third bedroom as his office where he taped his daily religious radio program on the big reel-to-reel recording machine that sat on his desk. At that same desk, he spent hours preparing sermons for his congregation, which met in various locations throughout the Phoenix area.

They had not planned on needing much space in their retirement home. Then my sister and I began spending long stretches of time with them. And those visits soon grew to include our cousin Jerry. And then my uncle Jim joined us. Finally, my parents would arrive the last week or two of our summer visits.

Every summer, Granner had a house full of adults and kids. Sometimes it was difficult to tell which age group was the bigger handful.

Undoubtedly, Granner must have lost her patience, but she never showed it. She seemingly never tired of waking us up to the smells of French toast and the Folger’s coffee she and Papa drank in endless quantities.

Never one to tell her grandchildren no, she indulged me and my sister with the Apple Jacks and Fruit Loops cereals we craved but weren’t allowed to eat at home. And sitting in front of her television set with its rabbit ears antenna watching cartoons while eating contraband cereal was a bit of heaven for which words fail.

Sunday dinners were something equally heavenly. After church, we would come home and Granner would immediately begin preparing for a mid-afternoon dinner. Granner’s fried chicken was legendary, not only in our family, but with the neighbors and church folk. She would pair it with mashed potatoes so light and fluffy, it was almost like eating butter-laced puffs of air. Green beans, corn on the cob, or sometimes, fried okra from a neighbor’s garden would round out the meal.

Then came dessert. My sister and I, already stuffed with Granner’s good fried chicken, would stand up and stretch to make room for her cherry pie. The crust was a golden buttery flakiness that would melt in my mouth. Like manna from heaven I would think to myself. And her cherry pie filling was the perfect balance between sweet and tart. To this day, my dad’s eyes sparkle when he speaks of Granner’s cherry pies.

Summers at Granner’s made me feel safe, carefree, and loved. I didn’t mind that I slept on her couch, or on the floor in a sleeping bag when all of the adults were there. And it didn’t matter that there weren’t enough places at the table for everyone to sit together. My sister and I and our cousin Jerry sat at Granner’s coffee table, less than a dozen steps from the grown-ups table in the tiny dining area.

Granner’s house never felt too small. In fact, it felt big. That is probably because it reflected the bigness of Granner’s heart.

At Granner’s house, everyone belonged. Granner never told anyone she didn’t have room for them to come in. She never made a person feel they were intruding or inconvenient. It was Granner’s house – a house built on love. Everyone shifted a bit to make room for the other.

It seems to me, the lessons I learned in Granner’s home are more important than ever.

These days in our nation, the dialogue too frequently falls into the camp of us vs. them. We blame the “thems” for taking our jobs, pilfering our resources, and over-running our country.  This kind of rhetoric makes our country small. It makes the “thems” feel even smaller.

That’s not the America I know – the America I believe in. In America, everyone belongs, just as they did in Granner’s house. America does not tell anyone we don’t have room for them to come in. We don’t make people feel they are an imposition or unwelcome. It’s America – e pluribus unum. Everyone shifts a bit to make room for the other.

Our nation feels small when our hearts and rhetoric are small. But the truth is we are a people with big hearts who are blessed to live in a great land. And I believe when we are blessed, we don’t build bigger walls. We build bigger tables so everyone has a place. 

After all, Granner would expect nothing less.