My grandfather has been much on my mind lately. It started, I think, with our trip to Michigan in July. It has been more than four years since he departed this earth, but his presence is still felt in all the corners of the home he shared with my grandmother for more than twenty years. It is around the table that he is most missed, and that is where we sometimes will reminisce together as we repeat his favorite sayings.
The pleasures of eating at my grandparents' table were manifold and revolved around my grandmother's famous cooking. Often, as we tucked into a delectable dessert, my grandpa would call out to my grandma, who was invariably hard at work in the kitchen, "Lyd, (short for Lydia), did you forget the sugar?" We at the table could see the twinkle in his eye as he reminded us that "Nature puts the flavor in but sugar brings it out!" It was a rare meal that did not end with his classic line, "There are two kinds of people who eat here. Those who help with the dishes, . . . and those who don't!" My brothers and I knew into which category he expected us to fall as we pushed back our chairs and hurried to lend a hand with the clearing up.
Thinking of all this, I took some pictures last July of what we grew up calling the "grandma lunch." A grandma lunch had a few acceptable variations, but it always included homemade bread fresh from the oven, cottage cheese, no fewer than three homemade jams, cold cuts, homemade applesauce, and whatever vegetables happened to be in season. Salads might or might not be served, but dessert was never absent. It usually consisted of a variety of homebaked bars or cookies, often still warm from the oven, served wtih strong coffee. My grandmother kept track of our current favorites and was sure to include them as she prepared for our visits. This has been my standard for lunch ever since, a standard which I have yet to achieve in my own home, but one that I remember most fondly.
Looking for something the other day, I no longer remember what exactly, I came across a Johnny Cash cd titled "My Mother's Hymn Book." Just the first few bars of the first song were enough to transport me back to a cold, snowy week in Ohio in January 2007. James and I continued to listen to the music, and I gave myself over to remembering.
After contracting pneumonia on Thanksgiving weekend of 2006 following a decade long battle with Parkinson's, my grandfather had shown no signs of improvement, leading to the difficult decision in mid-January to move him to hospice care. The children and I drove over from Pittsburgh to spend the last few days of his earthly life with him. This particular Johnny Cash cd had recently come into my possession, and we listened to it all week as we drove back and forth to the hospice center. Its mournful tone seemed appropriate to both the weather and our feelings. The fact that roughly half of the hymns on the cd focused on heaven provided both comfort to our hearts, and the perfect springboard for discussing with the children what was happening, and where their beloved Papa was headed.
As I listened and remembered, I jotted down a few of the lines that moved me both then and now.
"If we never meet again this side of heaven, I'll meet you on that beautiful shore"
"in the sweet by and by"
"a land where we'll never grow old"
"a beautiful home of the soul"
"our voices will blend with the loved ones who've gone on before"
"our spirits will sorrow no more"
"My darkest night will turn to day"
"Dear friends, there'll be no sad farewell, there'll be no tear-dimmed eyes"
"Some glad morning when this life is o'er, I'll fly away"
Much as we dreaded saying good-bye to him, I loved the thought of my grandpa flying away. His body had become his prison, and we all knew how he longed to be with his Savior. I remembered his dismay when Cameron was just shy of two years old, and he realized that he no longer had the strength to pick up his great grandson. I also remember his regret over the fact that Katie and Cameron would never remember him upright and striding purposefully through his orchards, barns and fruit storage. Then there was the day when he confided to me that he had been falling nearly everywhere he went. He shared with me the discomfort of others looking at him while he figured out a way to get himself back up onto a chair again. Our hearts ached for him, and for my grandma, who poured her very body and soul into caring for him.
We, at least I, think so rarely of heaven. Living our busy lives in the 21st Century as we do, it almost seems to require tragedy before we focus our thoughts heavenward for any length of time. In this way, my grandpa's struggle was a gift to us. It allowed us to hone in on what truly matters, the knowledge that our lives here last for but a moment compared to an eternity spent with Jesus Christ. On the afternoon that he quietly slipped away from us and passed from into glory, I felt as if we stood on holy ground.
Just this morning I opened my Bible to Psalm 112, and the first verse I read reminded me once again of my grandpa. "Blessed is the man who fears the Lord, who finds great delight in his commands. His children will be . . . blessed . . . Surely he will never be shaken; a righteous man will be remembered forever." We, his descendents, have been blessed more than we know. We can never forget his reverent love for God's Word, as he pulled it open and read to us after nearly every meal. We also will never forget his love for us. It wasn't until I was an adult, with children of my own, that I began to realize that not all grandparents love their grandchildren as our grandparents loved us.
I found a few pictures the other day of various visits we have made to the orchards in which my grandpa spent much of his life. Such was his love for them, and his faith in their restorative powers, that many, many times my grandpa was sure that if he could just get himself back into his fruit orchards, the bonds of Parkinson's would melt away, and he would be himself again. That is what I think about now, when we visit them.
I will close this post with something I wrote in December 2006 and read at my grandpa's funeral titled "We Love You Grandpa."
We can hardly bear to see you lying there, so helpless in your hospital bed. Hooked up to machines, unable to move, speak, eat or cry. You close your eyes when you see us come through the door, and we wonder if you are telling us that you want to go home to your Savior. We know that to be with the Lord is better by far, but we don't want to let go. Dad asks you how you are, and your eyes well up with tears, your shoulders heave, your body shakes. Grandpa, we love you more than we can say.
Dad opens his Bible to a familiar passage: "Thou art my refuge and strength. An ever present help in time of trouble." As you fight to breathe we think of you as you used to be, those strong farmer arms that loved to pick up young children, powerful legs that carried you swiftly through orchards and barns. We remember your hearty voice lifted in song, the big smile that welcomed us at the door. We grieve as we remember, and like Jeremiah, we weep. "It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness." "Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love."
Do you remember how we played hymns together, you on the organ as I stumbled along on the piano? Almost always we ended with a favorite hymn of yours: "There is a place of quiet rest, near to the heart of God . . Hold us, who wait before Thee, near to the heart of God." You taught me to love those hymns, Grandpa.
You move your lips to reply, tears come to your eyes. "The Lord also will be a refuge for the oppressed, a refuge in times of trouble." He is your stronghold, Grandpa. Dad tells you how much he appreciates the way you have served as the faithful head of our family. You have led the way for us, Grandpa, even as you endured the struggle of the past few years.
Dad turns to the Scriptures for more comfort: "Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; who comforteth us in all our tribulation." It is the cry of our heart for you to feel that comfort, Grandpa. We will need it in the days ahead. Thank you, Grandpa, for pointing the way. We love you, Grandpa, more than we can say."
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