Words cannot express how much this stubborn, sweet, man means to me.
If you've ever had the opportunity to speak at a funeral, you know that it can be a very therapeutic and even humbling experience. Remembering loved ones and celebrating life is something I love to do and I'm always honored by the invitation to share my thoughts with those who've gathered to celebrate life... But this time was REALLY hard!
I'm usually pretty good at organizing words into coherent thoughts, but not this time. Not about my Gramps. How do you put together adequate words to sum up a man who has been a key influence in the entirety of your life? Over the last
week I’ve jotted down pages and pages of notes and memories, but every time I
try to pull them together, all the feels start getting in the way.
I am the second of 25 grandchildren. Many of the younger grandkids were welcomed into this world by a grandpa with silver hair and fake teeth. They got the benefit of his age and wisdom. I was blessed with something different… and as far as I’m concerned, perhaps something better. When I was born, Grandpa was a ripe old thirty-seven year old... and still working on growing up.
The grandpa of my youth was young and fun and full of energy. He had locks of brown hair and fantastic sideburns. He started water fights and took us boating. He let us ride on his lap while he and Bertha (his beloved track-hoe) moved mountains. He taught us to love dirt and sunshine and hard work. And at the end of a long day, he happily let us snuggle between him and Grandma in their big waterbed.
He taught me how to make perfect chocolate milkshakes, with just the right balance of milk and ice cream to achieve those tiny little ice crystals. He taught me how to make his potato salad with his secret sloppy sauce. We watched MacGyver save the world with duct tape and took on our own adventures on long Sunday drives over mountains, across dirt roads, and to places most people have never even heard of. He took us to dams and educated us on the engineering wonders that they were. He told us stories of hillside cows, and how God had made their legs shorter on one side than the other so they could stand straight on the hills. He made up stories about an Indian brave named “Falling Rock” and how we should keep our eyes peeled for him anytime we saw the “watch for falling rock” sign on the side of the road.
I believe most, if not all, of his grandsons had the chance
to work for him at some point over the years. I never worked in a trench or
operated a piece of equipment, but work was so ingrained in him, I couldn’t
help but learn to love and appreciate parts of the trade. One of my most vivid
memories is of grandpa plopped down on his belly in the middle of the living
room, his elbows anchored in front of him and his head propped on his hands so
he could read his plans. I was enamored by those giant rolls of paper. I’d
often lay beside him, engineering scale in hand, and try to drink in as much
information as I could. I know he was working, but in those moments I felt like
the center of his world. As a young adult, when I started the architecture
program at the U, thanks to Grandpa, I was the only one in my class who had
been to a job site, could read plans, and knew the difference between a track
hoe and a loader.
Grandpa was playful, and loving, and goofy. But, he most certainly
wasn’t perfect. He was moody and temperamental and stubborn. Maybe it was the
byproduct of raising five girls, or maybe that’s just who he’d always been, but
if you ever got to witness a Ronald mood-swing, you know just how legendary
they could be. He could be one ornery, stubborn, crusty, pain in the toosh.– But if you took the time to break beyond the
crust, you found a man with a heart of gold. He’d give you the death-glare one
minute and a hug the next. Work was important, but at the end of the day, his
love for his family drove him. He loved Grandma and his daughters and all of
his grandchildren with all that he had. He wanted nothing more than to know
that we were all doing okay and that our needs were taken care of.
A couple of months ago a few of us were helping Grandpa with
some work around his yard. As had become his custom, he came out and sat on the
bench on his porch to watch. Out of the blue he said, “I don’t know why I’m
still here. I keep asking the Lord to take me home to Grandma.” This wasn’t the
first time he’d said something like this to me, but for some reason it really
resonated this time. All of our lives shifted to one degree or another 15 years ago when Grandma passed away, but for him heartache and loneliness have been his daily
companion. She was his everything. I learned so much about love and
unselfishness by watching the way he cared for his sweetheart. He carried her
purse, he combed her hair, he brought her fresh Pepsis every day. She was his
life, and he was hers. And the void he felt without her was often unbearable.
How cruel of a life would this be, if all the relationships
and love we built fizzled away to nothing?
How void of hope would we be if this
thing we call death was the end?
We say that Grandpa is with Grandma again, but this is more
than lip service. I know that they are together. The veil between heaven and
this earth is a thin one. I can testify that Grandma and other angels were with Grandpa over the last several days of his life. I was there. I felt their presence and witnessed Grandpa's connection with them. Just as he was eager to be by her side again, she was eager to be with him. Before we came to this earth, we were together, and because of the
Savior, Jesus Christ, we can be together past this life and for the eternities.
The apostle Paul wrote: 1 Cor. 15:55 “O death, where is thy
sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”
1 Cor. 15:22 “For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ
shall all be made alive.”
I’m grateful for a Savior who advocates to the Father on our
behalf and that through Him we can obtain eternal life with those that we love.
I am grateful for a grandfather who knew of this plan and tried his best to be
worthy of those blessing.
