Greatness

{faith, hope, love}

Memorial

I dreamt about my grampa last night.  I guess it only fitting, being memorial day weekend and all.

My grandpa died in 1992; I still miss him.

He was the type of person who would go back and tell the chef he loved the meal–just to let him know.

He was big on family. More often than not you could find him behind a camera or camcorder, making memories; we were always in front, shooing him way.

He made his own wine; some of which was really, really bad. He’d just shrug and laugh and try again the next year.

He was a complete and total nut–much to the exasperation of my grandmother. We still relive some of his better schticks; they still make us laugh.

He was a gentleman. He did not believe in crossing lines, taking over, or pretending to know it all. I still remember him sitting me down–not long before he died–and telling me, for my sake, to forgive my father. He went on to say he believed I would, in my own time. He didn’t scold, or talk down.

He loved adventure. I love the black and white photo of a young man, in leather chaps, standing next to his prized Indian. Of course, he seemed just as happy driving a boat of a Buick cross country to visit family.

He was a hard worker. While many of us would rejoice in any reason to get out of work, he continued even when cancer had taken over. He worked until he simply could not work any longer.

When he died, his hospice nurse asked to sing at his funeral. She sang–a little shrill and a little off-key–“The Wind Beneath my Wings.” The funeral home was beyond capacity. Grown men, dressed in military finery, stood in back, wiping away tears. The man who usually played taps at the graveside had to bow out; he wouldn’t be able to get through it, he said. Not for Vern.

Anyone who knew my grandpa could understand. None of us quite wanted to admit lights out for a man such as he.

He touched lives wherever he went–with concern in those baby blues, with that ornery smile, with a quiet dignity.

Often times I think it highly unfair he was taken so soon. He never got to know the spouses of his grandkids; he never got to know his great-grands–including the one who is his splitting image or the one named in his honor. Nor will they get to know him.

I guess it’s up to those of us who did know him, to be a mirror.

Maybe that’s what memorial day is all about.  Thinking of all those who have come into our lives and left a footprint that will never fade. We know the traits that have touched our own lives. What better memorial than turning around and passing them on …

Heroes

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*Special thanks to Michael Thornton for allowing me to post his school assignment.   Seems the world today is in dire need of a hero or two.  Should you be tempted to believe a hero is anyone but you, you have only to read this post.  As Michael says, it’s pretty easy if only you try …

The greatest gift

Yesterday, my friend Mel gave birth to a baby boy; but this baby boy was not born to her.   No, Mel offered to carry little Quilan Boyd so that his mother could witness his birth, even though cancer had ruined her chances for carrying him herself.  Mel’s husband and children put up with morning sickness, emotions, and cravings so that a certain couple might become a family all their own.   They did it out of love; and they did it with enthusiasm.  I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I could have that much love and concern for another.  Perhaps I’d get too attached; perhaps I’m simply too selfish.  What I do know, is this: my friend was willing to give the greatest gift of all; and in so doing, I believe, fullfilled John 15:13, “Greater love has no man, then when he lays down his life for his friends.”   No, she didn’t die – as we are taught in Sunday School – but she did put the life of another before her own.  And that is what it’s all about. 

So to both families, our deepest congratulations.  To Mel and her family – thanks for showing us what the greatest of love looks like …

Happy easter

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Photo courtesy of freefoto.com

“Two other men, both criminals, were also led out with him to be executed.” – Luke 23:32

Two thieves shambled along the dirt road leading to Golgotha.  Upon his back, each bore a large wooden cross inscribed with the crime for which he would die.  They were not alone on this final journey; a man whose cross read IESVS·NAZARENVS·REX·IVDÆORVM, “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews” walked with them.  He took the place of a murderer. 

During crucifixion, both robbers scorned the third; if they were King, they would not be hanging on a cross on a hill called the Skull.   But something in the man’s presence silenced one.  No matter the insult, this man named Jesus never fought back.  When He looked upon His accusers, He looked with pity, not resentment.  The robber turned to face the crowd.  That’s when he saw them; amidst those who mocked, those who mourned.  Rich and poor, relation and friend – his mother and brothers mingled with a harlot, a tax collector, a man healed of leprosy.  The lives Jesus touched. 

Like that odd band of followers, this man who did nothing but take, looked upon the man who did nothing but give.  He saw love reflected from the eyes that saw hate; he heard words of compassion in response to those of reproach; he felt acceptance, even as he pushed away.  He saw his Savior.  And while he knew he was not worthy of grace he cried out, “Jesus, remember me …“ – and most amazing of all, Jesus did.  Those were the words He waited for – the words He died for – and if we speak them even today, His answer remains the same: I tell you the truth… you will be with me in paradise.  It doesn’t matter our history, our sins, our hypocrisy.  We have only to call out to Jesus with heartfelt sincerity; His triumph over the grave will guarantee our pardon.

Begin…

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William Woodsworth was born April 7th, 1770 in Cockermouth, Cumberland, in the Lake District.  You may know he was a British poet, credited with ushering in the English Romantic Movement – but do you know he was the first to come up with the slogan “Just do it”?   Of course, in Woodsworth’s hand it came out as, “To begin, begin.”   Either way, it’s some good advice.  We all have dreams and aspirations, the longing of our hearts.  But sitting around thinking about them will do no good – we must meet them half way.  The only way a dream may come to fruitition is if we take that first step; we must begin.  It’s as simple and as difficult as that …