One, Two, Three...Wait and See
Beliefs and Belonging
I began the year introducing you to Grandma Bernie, the primary inspiration for Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal: Composing a Curious Faith, my second book set for publication on March 10, 2026. Today, I share about one of my other grandmothers who at nearly 97 years old, continues to influence my life and faith.
Grandma Kate is my paternal grandmother. Growing up she had a common answer for most of my questions. Whether I was asking about dinner, or what we were doing next, or where we were going, or why she was putting tissue in the Yahtzee cup, the answer was the same, “one, two, three…wait and see.” I never liked that answer and it probably only increased the amount and frequency of my questions.
Over the weekend, I visited Grandma Kate. Arriving with soup and sandwiches in one hand and a bag holding a copy of Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal in the other.
We ate lunch at the kitchen table on the same plates and with the same silverware she had when I was little. She caught me up on happenings in her world and what’s on the calendar for the coming days and weeks. She’s over winter and ready for baseball season to begin. Aren’t we all?!
Then we moved to the living room for the real conversation. When we talked on the phone about a visit, I told her I wanted to hear stories about her grandmothers. So that’s where we started.
I asked about her mother’s mother. She died when my grandma was eight months old.
I asked about her father’s mother. She died at the age of 95. My grandma talked about seeing her milk a cow, which challenged her belief that only boys and men could do that work.
For hours my grandma and I spoke and listened in equal measure. Asking about her grandmothers and their Catholic faith took us down a path that we never could have intentionally created. We talked about prayer and songs, the Rosary and Hail Marys, birth and life, grief and death, what happens when we die, baptism, communion, and what it means to belong.
She asked me more about Grandma Bernie and the special connection we shared. And wanted to know what I remembered about holidays and the farm where she was raised.
I was young when the farm was sold, but have several memories of being there. More than the physical location, I remember the people that made the farm what it was; those faces in the photo albums with names I worked so hard to memorize. I have always been drawn to the farm, and especially the women who made it what it was, in unexplainable ways.
Conversations with Grandma Kate haven’t always been easy or simple. Yet this visit wasn’t simply easy, it was perfectly tender. Why were we able to share so honestly and vulnerably? Poetry. Poetry is the reason.
Poetry is storytelling and telling stories is a sacrament of healing. Healing for the one who tells and the one who listens. Poetry doesn’t replace our questions, but offers a soft place to explore answers. Poetry doesn’t diminish the pain of exclusion, but gives us another way to hold what it means to belong. I’ve spent much of my life asking where I belong. Learning the hard way that a seat at the table doesn’t equate belonging there.
The poems of Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal are less about specific theological doctrines and more about the journey of exploring what I believe and why I believe it. This exploration continually stirs curiosity about the relationship between beliefs and belonging.
Does belonging in a family or faith community depend on what we believe?
Are beliefs a requirement for belonging?
I’ve come to believe that belonging is a rare gift.
It can also be used as a weapon of control.
Belonging is not a destination to be reached.
It is a never-ending river to be navigated with kindness and awareness.
Near the end of our visit, I asked my grandma if she ever sat face to face with her grandma talking, reminiscing, and asking questions.
“Oh no,” she said. “Never. Grandchildren just didn’t do that back then.”
I told her I’m really glad that has changed. That culture and tradition can change. That beliefs can change and so can how we talk about them. In a world so in need of change, that this is even possible feels like good news.
I invited my grandma to close her eyes.
“One, two, three…wait and see,” I said, placing a copy of Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal in her hands.
In that moment we were both where we belonged. Together. Surrounded by the presence of all our grandmothers. Open to what may come.
Tenderly, Rebecca
If you’ve ever wondered what you believe or where you belong, I believe these poems are for you. AND you can pre-order your signed copy starting this Monday, February 2nd through our website, 10CAMELS.com.
Pre-ordered copies of Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal: Composing a Curious Faith will not only be signed by me, they will also come with some bonus gifts to show my deep appreciation for your continued support.
*Pre-ordering directly from an author puts less profits in the pockets of third-party sellers and more in the hands of poets of me.
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Belonging is indeed a gift. I’m not sure beliefs are a requirement to belong to a community group or relationship. Holding the same values however is critical. Listening in “equal measure” as you and your grandmother shared was a signal that you both respected each other. An important distinction of “belonging”.