The first time I remember my dad crying, even just a small tear coming out of his eyes, I was in high school, and he was telling me about his grandfather – what he remembered about him, what a family man he was and how much he missed him. I had never seen him like that before.
I was in my 30s the first time I recall my brother ever getting choked up. We were on the phone, which was rare in itself. Grandpa was in the hospital, in the ICU, and things weren’t looking up. I couldn’t see my brother to gauge any visual responses, but I could hear it clearly in his voice. He had always been so stalwart and still. Not unfeeling, just resolute. Focused. Stoic. (Except when he was mad at his annoying little sister, but that’s a different story.)
The thought of losing our grandpa, even though we both knew he would get to be with Jesus when he left, and he had lived a long life to that point, much longer than many others, was beyond stoicism. Grandpa was later released from the hospital, and we rejoiced.
There’s something special about grandparents.
. . .
Grandma and I shared a love of all things lemon, which was rare in a family of chocolate-lovers, although she liked chocolate as well. She was also fond of mangos, rhyming them with “bongos,” and often accompanying the mention of the fruit with a story of when she and her family lived in South America as missionaries when she was young.
I remember Grandma taking my cousins and me down to the cove in the Klamath River, where we would play in the water and in the sand along the shore.
When visiting our house, Grandma heard me crying and came to comfort me after my brother had been mean to me. Again. It’s hard now, but someday we would be friends, she said. Someday took many years, but she was right.
She loved music, particularly praise music, and especially the piano, which she played beautifully. At the River House, she would play for family and friends who visited, and at church, Grandpa would carry in her keyboard and other supplies, set it up for her, then help her walk to it so she could play for everyone there.
Grandpa’s sense of humor permeated conversations and situations, filling rooms with laughter wherever he went (even when it sometimes made Grandma’s eyes roll).
A fan of puzzles, Grandpa built them all over his property, locking doors with secret, clever contraptions. Pushing or pulling a lever or moving an object nowhere near the door would mysteriously open it. Keys would have been too ordinary.
I remember Grandpa playing Black Magic with a group of us in the living room of the River House, a game much more innocent than it sounds. Claiming he could play with his eyes closed, he took the game from literal to metaphorical, and it worked brilliantly, of course.
He was always creating something, whether it was a painting, a poem, a fountain, photography, woodworking, a house project, or planting something new as he gardened. The energy he had all the way through his 80s is something I only wish I had now.
They were generous, offering their River House and treehouse as havens for vacationers, honeymooners, writers and visitors.
Family was important to them, and they always looked forward to visits with their kids, grandkids and great-grandkids, asking about everyone’s lives and caring for each person, including those who married in. They often had a camera or video camera in their hands, Grandma especially, and she surrounded Grandpa and herself with family photos, covering every inch of space on top of the piano, various shelves and other furniture with frames and albums.
Their marriage was precious and unique, and they loved each other well, decade after decade. Though they weren’t perfect, they taught us, even through their tiffs and disagreements, about the value of commitment and longevity.
But it was their love for God that was the foundation for everything. It was why Grandma endlessly practiced and played the piano, and cooked for hours for family functions, why Grandpa created so much and worked tirelessly, why they were so generous with what they had been given, how they were able to be married to each other for so long, and why they left the legacy they did to us. Their faith was an inspiration.
Married for 75 years, they passed away this month, five days apart, both at sunrise. Grandpa was a WWII veteran, and was honored with a military service, alongside Grandma. Now they are truly at peace and praising the Lord face to face. Family get-togethers will never be the same without them, but I am grateful for their long lives and the time I had with them. I loved them both deeply and look forward to seeing them someday again in heaven.
“Now I have told you of my God!” – Glenn Warner, 1958
