Both of my grandmas had fat arms.
As youngsters growing up in St. John Lutheran Church in Luverne, my siblings and I would occasionally sit with either set of grandparents during the church service instead of with our parents.
When the morning grew exceptionally long, our grandmothers’ large, pillowy arms served as lovely headrests.
I recalled those moments as my six-year-old granddaughter, Evelyn, rested her head against my arm during the service in a church on the south side of Indianapolis last Sunday.
Doing my best to focus on the pastor’s message, “God protects and prepares his people for his purposes,” I wondered, “Do I have fat arms?”
“Does this beautiful child think she is just resting her head against her grandma? Or, is she thinking, ‘My grandma has big, fat arms.’”
The pastor spoke of Moses and how God used him to lead hundreds of thousands of people out of slavery.
Did Moses sit with his grandmother in the synagogue? Did she have fat arms?
My granddaughter’s little blonde head rested against the large expanse of beige that was my sweater.
(Somehow, since Covid hit, my sweater size has shifted from a medium to a large. I have no idea why. I blame the supply chain.)
The 4-year-old younger sister, two seats over, bounced between her parents like a ping pong ball. She wiggled. She flipped. She flopped. She even tooted.
But next to me, a peaceful child rested her head on my ample arm, her gaze fixed on the pastor.
He was explaining that God used each stage of Moses’ life to prepare him for the next.
And it occurred to me, “God uses fat arms for his purposes.”
I thought of my grandmothers. I looked at my granddaughter and said, “Amen.”