My mother and her three siblings grew up poor, on a small farm in rural northern Michigan. They went barefoot in the summer. They slept on mattresses made of grain sacks stuffed with straw. There was no money for school supplies. When my mother had an opportunity to get free violin lessons during the Depression, there was no money for gas to drive her to town.

But the four of them never thought of themselves as poor.  Instead, they grew up with a strong sense of their own self-worth, a sturdy self-reliance, and the hope and belief that life had wondrous experiences for them… which, it turned out, life did.

How did this happen?

It was their own mother, who insisted her children were special, who gave them special names. Who told them over and over that they were as good as anybody else in the world. Who set a fine-looking lunch table every day, served on flowered china plates with the knives turned out just so and a fresh rose as a centerpiece. Who looked for every chance to educate her children about the outside world. Who went to bat for her children by bucking local opinion and fighting for a consolidated school district so that local children, instead of going to traditional one-room schoolhouses, would go to a larger school and get a better education.

It was practicing gratitude as a family. They were grateful to always have enough food to eat. They were grateful that they had running water, even if it was an ice-cold flow of water powered by the windmill on the hill.

It was modeling sturdy self-reliance and the idea that if there was a problem, hard work and ingenuity could solve it. It was their mother selling home-made cottage cheese to families in town, to get money for school supplies. (My mother used that same sturdy self-reliance to walk six miles into town to get those free violin lessons, and then walk six miles home again.)

It was giving to those who were less fortunate.  It was inviting townspeople out during the Depression to gather windfall apples. It was their mother teaching local farm wives to sew, and inviting two motherless girls over one night a week, teaching them self-care, and washing and pressing their dresses for school the next day. It was their father modeling a quiet faith in God, that got him through working both his farm and his parents’ farm, year after year. It was their father and mother, taking his parents into their own home, when his parents needed help.

It was being active in their church. It was singing in the choir, attending Sunday school. It was teaching their children to hope for and expect God’s grace, and a bright future.

In those days a girl spent her growing-up years putting together what was called a hope chest, a collection of goods that she could bring into her marriage. But how could my mother, a barefoot farm girl, ever put together a hope chest?

And yet by the time she graduated from high school my mother had a complete and valuable set of candlewick glassware. A punch bowl. Cake plate. Cups, saucers and plates. Serving bowls.

The glassware was a gift from an elderly maiden lady in their church. It was pure grace and like God’s grace it was beautiful and far beyond anything that could ever be expected or predicted.

More grace followed each of the Vance children into their adult lives.

There was no money for college, but my mother got a scholarship to nursing school; even spent a year in New York, studying and seeing the sights. When she met a young pastor in Traverse City and they married, she took on a new career as a pastor’s wife, traveling all over Michigan and taking that candlewick glass with her on every move.

My Aunt Pat (Patricia) followed my mom to nursing school, then went to a weeklong Christian camp put on by my father. There she met a young pastor who showed up at the farm a few days later, and would one day marry her.  They served in pastorates throughout Michigan; were graced with spending a year in South America, and  tsking other trips to faraway places. Aunt Pat’s continuing work as a nurse enabled them to purchase a vacation home on Lake Charlevoix that became an anchor for their farflung family.

My Uncle Bryce was a farmer and also a manager at the East Jordan Iron Works. He took his leadership skills into positions on the board of a bank, in community service, and in Rotary. For years he ran a scholarship program for students from all over the world to come and spend a year with local families in East Jordan.

My Uncle Barton went to college on the GI bill (talk about grace!) and became an engineer. He was active in his church, a loving father to his children and grandchildren and a dedicated and much-loved grandfather stand-in for my children.

Teaching their own children, and grandchildren, to trust in God’s grace.

Grace upon grace.

Like the unexpected and beautiful gift of a complete set of candlewick glassware to a barefoot farm girl.