Claire Henley: Adventures West (My Beautiful Ema)

  • Thursday, August 27, 2015
My beautiful Ema
My beautiful Ema

(Editor's Note: Chattanoogan Claire Henley started an adventure of a lifetime on the remote Pacific Crest Trail in April. Along the way, she had many adventures and found herself a husband named Big Spoon. Here is her story beginning in March).

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”

–Elizabeth Barrett Browning

For Ema

May 1, 1926 – March 28, 2012

Three years ago today, my grandmother Helen Henley (who we called Ema) passed away after experiencing a complication from her knee replacement surgery. Though she was 85 years old, her death shocked her six children and nineteen grandchildren who expected the surgery to relieve her arthritis and prolong her life instead of cut it short.

 Ema and I were close. Up until she died, she was a kindred spirit I confided in because she, too, had the desire to know what existed beyond our southern realms and therefore took the steps to find out. If she were alive today, she would be elated over my plans to hike the PCT. She would sit me down in her living room at the Hanover Street Big House—so named because of its four stories, high ceilings, and big family it held—and say, “Honey, when I was your age I traveled the world. I sailed on ships to countries overseas. I helped your Papa plant churches in Jerusalem. I schooled my children in Izmir. I walked the seashore of Greece.”

She would then say how she saw herself in me, and how she wished—oh, how she wished—she could join my journey.

This post is in honor of my Ema. The following is the commemoration speech I gave at her funeral on March 31, 2012 at Central Church of Christ. Three years have passed since Ema sailed beyond our realms, but her earthly influence in my life remains, and will remain still.

It’s timely that Ema’s irises bloomed before she passed away. This winter was unusually warm, and on normal occasion the irises don’t bud until April. This March, Ema delighted in her flowers one last time. And now that she’s gone, the newborn irises, standing firm and bright around the Big House, epitomize my grandmother’s magnificent life.

Ema loved the natural world. If she were inside during the day, she wouldn’t dare turn on the lights, but kept her many windows uncovered so that sunshine poured in. The ocean made for her favorite escape. To tread in saltwater and be lifted by waves, her salvation. On our summer trips to Sarasota, I never knew someone to stay in the ocean for hours on end and not dunk her head underwater, like Ema. She was simply content to float in the sun-rich seawater that brought her suffering joints relief. And Ema did suffer. However, though in crippling arthritic pain, her courage never faltered. With an enduring spirit, she kept her head above the water until the end.

Ema was ambitious. Not one to waste a second of time, she rose before dawn and got to work. She owned, managed, and rented out duplexes all over town. She sold real estate to thousands. She went to church Sunday morning and Wednesday night. She cooked Sunday Lunch every week for our family—30+. And on Thursdays, she somehow fit in the appointment for her nails.

She set the bar high, and never hesitated to show her six children and nineteen grandchildren how high. For example, one fall afternoon a few years back I went over to the Big House. I was upset over a boy, and though I tried to hide it, Ema, in her intuitive way, knew. We sat in the living room with autumn’s sun streaming in, and she told me of her first heartbreak.

“Honey,” she said, “when I was your age and a boy broke my heart, I didn’t sit and wallow. I washed windows.”

With Ema now gone, I’m thankful for the many windows in the Big House.

And I’m thankful for my Ema, a woman who lived a life of love. She was a woman of Christ—self-sacrificing, joyful, and tuned-in. She had the heart of a cowgirl and the presence of a queen. In work pants and bandana, she scrubbed baseboards to maintain her rentals; in suit and lipstick, she became the top producer in Tennessee. Above all, she saw to it that those around her never went without. The easiest example to give is her cooking. She always had a meal on the dining room table. It didn’t matter who you were or why you were at the Big House, if you were there, you would be fed. And fed well. Because one bite of Ema’s cooking—her hand-rolled dumplings, slow-cooked roast, Crisco-fried okra, or sweet potato pie—and you forgot your trials. Comfort food at its finest. And to see Ema take pleasure in the pleasure she gave to everyone she fed was divine. I know she felt it was well worth her sweat.

Ema wasn’t perfect and never claimed to be. But she worked hard, loved deep, rejoiced in the day, and never hid from duty, but let her noble presence shine. She lived a humble life, dedicated to her family and her faith. She stood strong on God’s solid ground, no matter her weakness from the arthritis in her bones.

She sunk her teeth into every day to taste its every spice. She painted, she sang, she grew her treasured flowers. And though she lived with unbearable pain, she never gave up, but was (and will forever be) the heart of the Big House where we gathered for decades to laugh, cry, deliberate, celebrate, relax, work, and eat.

Of course, we were never just hungry for Ema’s food, but also for her—her kind and cool companionship. When you needed her, Ema was there. And when you finished telling her your troubles, she reassured you everything would be okay.

And it always was.

Now, I believe Ema walks in Heaven, where pain no longer consumes her, but perfect peace.

So, to Ema, who had a life like this season’s irises—stunningly against the odds: I love you. I miss you. I’m blessed to have had you as a grandmother. Now I’m going to take your advice, and wash windows.

* * *

Claire's first book on her adventures while living in Colorado can be ordered here:

http://www.amazon.com/51-Weeks-The-Unfinished-Journey-ebook/dp/B00IWYDLBQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1394801373&sr=8-1&keywords=51+Weeks

The Big House
The Big House
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