On July 15, 1872, Laura Rollins was born. And the lives of
so many people were therefore blessed. Her death in 1977, shortly before her
104th birthday, was also a blessing – her last, constant prayer was
answered: “Please, Lord, let me come home.”
I know this because, when I visited her in the nursing home, she told me
of her prayer. “I don’t think God loves me. I keep asking to go home, and I am
still here…” That went through me like a
flash of lightning. My other grandmother (Carrie Wiley) had told my mother (her
daughter) that sometimes people who are suffering from one sort of illness or
another and who wanted to be relieved of that suffering were not able to be at
rest – because their loved ones “were holding on to them too hard.”
I knew, standing there, listening to Laura Brown, as she
held my hand, that I was most likely the one holding on to her – completely,
and not just by the hand. She was my first and most significant instructor in
the faith. When I was five years old, she put me in front of the faith community
of Parks Chapel AME Church in Centerville, Illinois. I was there to recite a
poem I had memorized for the Easter service. My immediate family was not part
of the AME church; my parents having converted to Roman Catholicism (from the AME
and Baptist traditions in the 1930s). But my paternal grandmother –“Ma Brown” –
knew what many have not yet learned: faith should unite and bond us together.
Socially and politically constructed barriers are not from God. What was so ecumenical about my being put in
front of that congregation was that my maternal grandmother, Carrie Wiley – “Motherdear”
– bought me a tailored suit for the Easter occasion. So Catholic-Methodist-Baptist
influences were on display.
So was my complete lack of filters. Even though I have been
able to do theater, as an actor, director and instructor, ever since I was in
high school, my introduction to public performance caused a moment of
debilitating “stage fright.” I looked at that congregation and completely
froze. My grandmother started prompting me, with the lines. I looked at her and
said, “Please leave me alone. I am trying to button my coat.” Actually I was
tugging at my coat out of extreme nervousness. She started laughing. The entire
assembly joined in. I recited my poem and sat down.
Laura Brown never stopped prompting me. She never stopped
intervening on my behalf when an occasional parental action caused other forms
of emotional and psychological trauma. I learned to see, actually see, others
by being her constant companion during visits all over East St. Louis, from the
age of being a toddler to when my immediate family moved to Wisconsin in
1956. She was also able to intervene
during one of my most traumatic occurrences when I went into a physical
meltdown, due to a migraine headache that no one was taking seriously. I
started shouting and throwing dishes. She pulled me into a deep embrace, looked
at me, put her hands on my shoulders and whispered. What she whispered did not
matter. The calming embrace cleansed me of such behavior for the rest of my
life.
She was my first history teacher, also. From when I was 3 years old and on, she would show me her collection of pictures and tell me stories. When my Aunt Leola (her daughter) died, her son took those pictures and wouldn't let me make copies. "They were my Mama's and you can't have them" is what he shouted at me. In his last days, with extreme dementia, he didn't remember me or the fact that his mother had died. And his stepchildren got rid of all of his things when he died. Those pictures went back to the 1880s. But I learned the lesson that all of us historians must learn: All we have are our stories.
And in 1962, when I was to begin my journey on the path to
priesthood, I visited her, in her apartment and survived a deep, intense and thorough
inquisition. When I had answered all of
her concerns, she looked at me, and said, “I know you will be fine.” The
cookies and lemonade were restorative. [A
few hours later, Carrie Wiley, a few blocks down the street in East St. Louis,
conducted her own CIA interview. I passed that test, also. And the gingerbread
and milk were sacramental, also.]
On the day of my ordination to the priesthood, I went to the
nursing home that had been her place of confinement for six years. She had
suffered a stroke on the morning of my return to the St. Louis area, to begin
my studies in philosophy, in 1966. My
family took me straight to her hospital room that morning. And I visited her
regularly, no matter where she was confined. On May 27, 1972, I knew I needed
her blessing before I walked into the church for the public ritual. She held my
hand.
She held my hand. And
she still does.
And she has taught me to “go and do likewise,” for the
children God sends to me, in order for me to “do as I have been done by…..”
