It snowed where I live while I was away visiting my children over Thanksgiving, and now that I have returned home, I will be wearing my new winter coat. It took me months of internal conflict before finally buying the coat and it is the nicest thing that I have purchased for myself in decades. Winter coats have an unusually prominent place in my mind for common things made of fabric but there is a reason for that. It is a story rooted in my G’ma’s love and my mother’s spite.

My half-brother was born at the beginning of my first year of high school. I was a homebody and I loved kids. Those things worked together perfectly to make me the live-in babysitter. And I honestly did not mind, though my mother never paid for my time, and I seldom even heard a thank you.

My brother was my little buddy. For four years we were attached at the hip as I read him books, took him sled riding, explored nature with him, and watched him drive his Matchbox cars or ride his bike. My mother took full advantage of the opportunity too. When I was not at school or in youth group meetings, I was with him. Since I never received an allowance for helping around the house or babysitting, I occasionally had to babysit for others to get funds to attend a youth conference, or buy some new eyeshadow, or nail polish. And with no car to drive to a part-time job, I was stuck. This arrangement, with me at home watching my brother, was standard from my freshman year until I graduated high school and moved away to college.

Sometime late in the winter of my sophomore year, my G’ma noticed my efforts. She always did. G’ma was the closest thing I had to a cheerleader. As flawed as I know her to have been, at times in my childhood, she was all that stood between me and despair.

G’ma had noticed how much time I spent with my brother, and she had noticed that as a grown young woman, I was still wearing the puffy pink winter coat I had since the sixth grade. It was stained and worn and too short in the arms and body and the style had long since passed. As a sitter and playmate for my brother, she must have expected that I would get some reimbursement and she was surprised when I told her one day that I did not. G’ma saw my predicament and decided she needed to do something about it.

One Sunday after lunch at her farm house, she pulled me aside and told me that she had seen what I did for my brother, and that she wanted to get me a new coat. She told me that she was going to arrange to take me to the mall to do a little shopping. I was thrilled in only the way an eighties-era teen girl could be.

But as soon as G’ma told my mother her plan, the complaints started. My mother insisted that the coat I had was fine and that I did not need anything else. And she complained that G’ma was wasting her money.

But that was just par for the course with my mother who seemed to genuinely get pleasure out of disappointing me.

I had learned when I was young not to ask for anything special – even on my birthday or Christmas – because my mother would make it painful for me to ask, let alone the misery she would create on the day of celebration. But on my sixteenth birthday, I made a gamble. By that point, I decided that it would be better to endure my mother’s disappointment than to have her version of a party and play along as though happy about it. So, when asked what I wanted for my sweet sixteen, I told her a Walkman. I even said it did not have to be a name brand. I would take whatever. I just wanted the means to escape in my room or outside to listen to music.

Well, as was normal, she was upset at the idea of getting me something that I wanted and insisted that if I persisted in my desire to have a Walkman, that would be it – no card, no cake, no party. She had not had an actual party for me in years so that was no big deal. And the “you won’t get a cake” threat was not a first either, so I said a cheerful, “Ok, I’ll just take the Walkman!” and that was that. My sweet sixteen would be a trip to the store without even wrapping paper to go along with the present.

But my aunt did not like it when she heard. At a similar Sunday lunch at G’ma and Papa’s farm, she asked what my sweet sixteen birthday plan was, and when she heard that I was not having any celebration for my birthday, she insisted that would not do and that she would be there with a cake. Against the protests of my mother, my aunt showed up at our house on my birthday with a pretty store-bought cake covered in icing roses. In my childhood photo album, there is a picture of me sitting with that cake and a huge grin on my face. It was the prettiest cake I had had since the days when my paternal grandmother (a cake decorator) made cakes for me.

But back to the coat.

On a wintry morning much like this week, G’ma picked me up and took me to the mall. And she walked me straight to The BonTon. I had never shopped at The BonTon before. It was far too pricey, and I had only ever stared at the clothing there. G’ma had done her homework though and walked me right to several racks of coats that were in the latest style.

In the late eighties and early nineties, the style for teen girls and young women was black and white tweed overcoats with shoulder pads and leather collars. And there I was staring at racks and racks of them. I was going to have something stylish!

G’ma waved her arms in the direction of the racks and told me to pick out whatever I wanted. I managed to find a mid-length overcoat style that suited me and looked great with the penny loafers G’ma had given me for school the previous year. We made the purchase and the clerk put the coat in a BonTon coat bag. Never had I walked so tall and proud as I did leaving that store.

When I got home with my prize though, my mother expressed immediate disappointment. From that day, whenever she saw me putting the coat on, she complained that it was “too thin,” “too expensive,” or “a waste” – never missing a chance to express her disdain.

But putting that coat on made me feel like a princess. I felt noticed. I felt important. That is the kind of love G’ma gave to me.

For the next three years, I wore that coat with pride and then I made the decision to go to college in Georgia. As we packed up the coat for my move, my mom announced that I would now have a proper place to wear the coat. And I never heard another word about it. I am not sure if it was out of sight and out of mind or if she genuinely believed that the coat was suitable for Georgia. But she never talked about it again and I only wore it a few times during my college years because it was far too warm for Georgia winters.

I still have a tough time buying myself nice things. I have a small wardrobe. I keep a small shoe collection. I have a few simple pieces of jewelry. The only time since G’ma’s gift that I have put any money into a nice coat was when I needed a heavy winter coat to keep from freezing to death when I lived in Mongolia, but I eventually gave that coat away when we moved to the southeast US.

I wish I could say that the love of people like my sweet aunt and my G’ma made an impact that was able to override the messaging of my mother. It was not. But without those loving people in my life, I have no idea where I would have ended up. That sweet aunt was never able to raise her own child, but she certainly had an impact on me. And my winter coat was not the only special gift of encouragement that G’ma gave me. Right up to our last phone conversation before her death, she gave me little gifts of love and encouragement that I will always carry with me.

Former evangelical homeschool mom and one-time missionary and pastor’s wife, Stephanie Logan, also known as Snicklefritz, draws on her life story and four decades of experience within the evangelical movement. Her views and stories are her own.

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