August 23, 2013

and soonest our best men with thee do go

When I try to write my own words about my Grandpa, my own, my precious grandfather, it's hard to pick only a few things. My memories break apart into half-remembered tenderness--games of peggity for hours at the kitchen table and stories of his lapis lazuli ring from Afghanistan.

My Grandpa was not a set a piece in our lives--a relative that we were supposed to write on Christmas. His love and joy were a part of us, a heritage that he passed down from his children to their children. He would rub his face against ours before he would shave, making us squeal because of his scratchy beard. He would say "I have a secret for you," and then whisper "I love you!" into our ears.

He loved my Grandma--you could tell it in the way he would say "Lorraine," his deep voice rolling over the syllables. He loved her for traveling the world with him, he loved her for caring for him in these last years. Their 60+ year marriage is a testament to their love, commitment, and the gracious kindness of God.

Grandpa loved his Savior. I remember waking up on summer mornings to see him faithfully sitting by the grandfather clock, leg rocking as he read his Bible. I know that this morning he heard "Well done, good and faithful servant."

I already miss you, Grandpa. I love you more than I can say. I cannot wait to see you again.




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