This past Sunday, November 4th, I awoke to a message that Shawn’s grandmother, Hazel Baker had passed away. I knew I wanted to try and honor this amazing woman with written words, but I wasn’t sure exactly where to start. I have 20 years of stories, and memories of my time knowing her, and a lifetime more of the legacy that she has left behind. There is so much to say, but I wanted to start at the basics. I wanted to understand what her name meant, and if it was relevant to her story…or to mine.
The name Hazel comes from the masculine Biblical name Hazael, who was a king of Syria in the Old Testament, and means “Whom God sees”. Throughout several centuries, the English adopted the name as Hazel for a girl, and it became known as one who is “a commander”.
One whom God sees…who is a commander. If this is truly what Hazel means, there is no better name in all the world for Shawn’s amazing grandmother..a mother to 6, a grandmother to 12, a great-grandmother to 25, and a great-great-grandmother to 2. Hazel’s 84 years were spent commanding, leading, loving, nurturing, and always knowing that indeed God saw her.
Growing up, I never knew my grandmothers. My mom’s mother had passed away before I was born, and my dad’s mother was never part of our lives for many reasons. As a very young girl, I was fortunate enough to have neighbors who served the grandparent role for many years. Mr. and Mrs. Atwood were, and still are, magical people. I would spend hours at their house helping Mrs. Atwood prepare for her bridge club, and was fascinated by the fancy tea sandwiches and silver trays she used to serve her friends. I always felt extremely loved, but always wondered if that was what it was like to really have a grandma.
When I met Shawn, I was 17. On our very first date, as we made awkward small talk and got to know one another, we talked about what we liked to do as hobbies. I told Shawn I loved to cook, but that I was terrible at baking although I always wanted to learn how. That was when I learned about Grandma Baker and her amazing pies and rolls. Shawn described her like a grandma you see in the movies. The grandma who always has on an apron, and is soft around the middle, and gives the best hugs and makes the best French silk pie. The grandma who was no nonsense and feisty but who loved Jesus first and her family second…in that order, but nearly equal.
I was lucky enough to meet Hazel just a few months into our relationship. And every single thing that Shawn told me was true. I remember driving to her white farm house and pulling up onto the grass and going through the back door into the kitchen filled with the smell of warm bread and immediately being met with the sweetest, most sincere hug. Hazel grabbed my hand and led me outside to her patio where there were three metal chairs and two bowls, one full of green beans and one that was empty. I sat right beside her and snapped beans and thought to myself that this is it. This is what it’s like to have a grandma.
Over the next months and years, I learned so many amazing stories about Hazel and about the life she had built and what family, faith, and love truly meant to her. Hazel married Shawn’s grandfather, Kirby, when she was 15. Kirby had lost his first wife and had a young son, Johnnie. Hazel always said that Kirby needed someone to take care of him, and once he found her, he couldn’t get rid of her. Hazel went on to have five more children and had the unfortunate experience of losing one of her sons following an accident. Anytime she spoke of Ricky and told stories of his motorcycle fiascos and his handsome face, she would tear up. Family was hands down the absolute most important thing to Hazel and she cherished her brood fiercely.
Hazel’s beloved husband, and Shawn’s grandfather, Kirby passed away suddenly when I was pregnant with Brooks and Connor. She always regretted that he wasn’t able to meet the boys and Perry, but any time we had a family photo, she held a framed picture of Kirby in her lap. She honored his memory and fostered his legacy through the retelling of stories and jokes and life lessons that have enabled our children to know him through her eyes. I’m not sure there is a greater gift.
After the boys were born, I was at her house on a crisp fall afternoon, and Hazel decided it was time to teach me how to bake. Over the years I had developed a deep appreciation of food and cooking, but still could not master the art of bread making. In the way that only Hazel could, she snapped at me and said “well that’s just dumb. There is no excuse for you not being able to bake bread. Do you make a mess when you cook?”. I explained to her that yes, I always had a messy kitchen, and had been told that was a sign of a good cook. She replied by saying “well maybe, but it’s sure as heck not the sign of a good baker. That’s your problem. Slow down. Measure your ingredients. Feel the dough with your hands. Listen to how the crust sounds when you tap on it. Stop being in a hurry and just take your time. If you do that, you don’t have a chance to make a mess because you follow the steps, and then it’s easy.” We spent the next several hours kneading dough and telling stories and making plans for the holidays. She told me she didn’t trust me enough to turn over the rolls to me yet, but that she might let me make a pie….
Every holiday, every birthday get together, and every meal, Hazel would pray. We would all gather in the kitchen and hold hands, and she would pray for all of us. She would thank God for the blessing of family, and she would cry. Every single time. She would always pray that we would always put God first and turn to Jesus in difficult times. She would ask for forgiveness of our shortcomings and bless the food to the nourishment of our bodies. As I type these words, I can hear the quiver in her voice and the sincerity of her prayer and the reverence she had for her faith. She was one “Whom God Sees”.
Over the last few years, Hazel’s health had been declining. She was no longer able to plant her enormous gardens or work in her yard or cook in her kitchen the way she so desperately loved. She was more and more reliant on help from other people, and her role of the commander, the care taker, the nurturer was slowly slipping away. Throughout her struggles and her illness, her faith never wavered. She talked routinely about meeting Jesus and being reunited with Kirby and Ricky and her daughter in law Zona, whom she loved like one of her own. She knew exactly where she was going, and I have no doubt she is there today, celebrating and loving just as deeply and fiercely as she did while she was here.
On Sunday morning, after I heard the news of her passing, I decided there was one way I could honor her. I got out my stand mixer and a cookbook she had given me from 1966 entitled “A World of Breads”. I carefully measured each cup of flour, each teaspoon of salt and soda; I let each egg come to room temperature just exactly like the recipe called for, and I made two beautiful loaves of banana bread. I greased and floured the pans and cleaned up after every step. As soon as they were finished, I turned them out onto a wire rack and as they cooled, I cried. I cried because I finally knew. I finally understood what it meant to have a grandmother. I was so lucky that for 20 years, she was mine. And if you knew her, and if you loved her, she was your grandmother too. It didn’t matter if your last name was Baker, or Flannigan, or McNeely, or anything else. She was the quintessential country grandma. Soft around the middle, with flour on her apron. The grandma who made the best pies and gave the best hugs, and who will be so so missed.
Hazel, the commander, whom God sees. What a fitting name.
-H
Our Thousand Days 