Ordinary Lives Are Often Extraordinary

I woke up this morning with a heaviness of heart. I dreamed of some loved ones who have gone on to their long sought home. Some of the dreams I have seem so real, the images of my mind so vivid, that, in that state between sleep and awake, sometimes it is hard to know if the dream isn’t reality. But that state ends rather quickly when I awaken enough to know that it was all a dream, all in my mind.
Yesterday, January 20, would have been my grandfather’s birthday, had he lived. He and his life press heavy on my mind every year since he died. He never accomplished anything that will mark him in the minds of men for posterity sake. I suppose that when my oldest son draws his last breath that the memory of grandfather will die with him, and I am assuming the course of nature. But ordinary lives often make extraordinary impressions on those that it may seem that you least impress.

My grandfather, who my brothers and me called Papa, made extraordinary impressions on me. He was a carpenter or woodworker by trade, working at a counter shop owned by his brother-in-law. He never made a great deal of money, but he made a living. He was an ordained Baptist preacher, but as is tradition with our group of Baptists, he did not earn any money by being a preacher. He took very seriously the charge to the apostles to take nothing in return for their preaching. He pastored only one church, and only for one year, a few years after telling that he was called, but he always said that he did not believe that pastoring churches was his gift. He avoided the trouble of other churches, but was not afraid to stand for what was right if trouble came his way. He was not a sower of discord, as many are today, and would help any one in any way he could. But he would not sacrifice principle to do so.
He was a strong role model for my brothers and I, a standard in a world that at a certain time in our lives we felt was falling around us. When my mother and father divorced when I was ten, and my brothers younger, I felt that everything that I had believed in to that time, which was basically the stability of my family, was in shambles. But Papa was one who was there to let us know all would be all right with us. He helped to be sure that our needs were met in all ways. And he never talked down about either of my parents.

Papa taught me about what it meant to be a man. I learned lessons not only from what he told me, but by the way he lived his life. One of those important life lessons came when I was around 13 years old. He sat me down to talk. He wanted to lay out how I should set my priorities in life. He told me that my priorities should be in this order:
1. God
2. Wife
3. Family
4. Friends
5. Job
Although I have fell short of keeping these things in their proper order many times in life, I have always striven to do so. And his words I have never forgotten.

Before my wife and I married, he sat us down and counseled us about what we were entering in to. He read from Ephesians and Ruth, and explained what should be expected of us in our marriage and what marriage should mean to us. Though we have had some rough times, my wife and I are still happily married after twelve years, and I still look forward to every year that I can spend with her.

When my wife and I were early in our marriage, we struggled financially, and I went to him to borrow money. I felt small and worthless when I did so, because I knew that he worked for a living and needed the money he earned. I let him know as much when I would go to him to borrow money. But he was not phased by the request, nor did he hesitate to grant my request. I committed to pay him back, but he said, "Don’t worry about it. Pay me back if you can. If you can’t, that’s fine. The Lord has always provided for me. I’ve always gotten back what I have loaned people before, and then some, even if they never paid me back directly. I will always help you as long as you help yourself." He knew that we were trying but needed some help over a hump. As time has went on, I have been in positions to help friends. His attitude is the one I have tried to adopt.

As I grew into my twenties, he became a dear friend to me. My family and I would go to visit my grandparents at their home, and we would spend hours talking, sometimes about the Bible, sometimes about our family. Those are the times that I cherish in memory and miss in practice.
He found out in March of 1998 that he had bladder cancer after passing blood and, at our request, visiting a doctor to have it checked out. When the doctor gave him his options, he became very depressed. One option, the initial one he leaned toward, was to have his bladder removed and wear a bag for the rest of his life. The second option was to have his bladder scraped, then take radiation treatments. The third option was to have a new bladder constructed from intestinal tissue, replacing the cancerous bladder. Before going into the hospital for surgery, he decided to take option 3 and have a new bladder constructed. He went into the hospital the second Sunday in June of 1998.

He came through the surgery with flying colors. His initial hospital stay was supposed to last five to six weeks, making his discharge date around July 4. On July 3rd, he was rushed to intensive care due to adult respiratory distress. It seemed that he had developed some infections, possibly due to the steroid drugs that he took for his rheumatoid arthritis, and his lungs had begun filling with fluid. He never regained consciousness. He died in the hospital on August 21, 1998.
One of the things that always bothered me since was that it was his wish not be hooked to life support. He made this clear with us all. But he was on a respirator the last few weeks of his life. I have always wondered if he ever regained enough consciousness to think that we had forsaken him. According to the doctors, he was drawing his own breaths, but the respirator gave him volume to do so. So technically this was not life support. But little comfort it would have been to him had he awakened in that state.

But all of the wondering from here to eternity will not bring him back. My grandmother is lonely and often depressed, but she has coped with the loneliness by revisiting old friendships with other women in similar situations. I often go to visit her and think of how I would love just one more time to have a good heart-to-heart talk with Papa. I long for his counsel. I miss his smile when he would see me.

But he was ready for his final hour. He often looked for it. And what he knew better than I, and what becomes more evident to me as I grow older is this; mortal man is born to die, and die he will. Throughout the ages, men have lived and men have died. But the one sure thing that never changes is God. When all else is gone, God will always be there. No matter how far we may stray, God is always right where we left him. And if it seems that all have forsaken you, even in the end, God will be there to send His angels to take you home if you are one of His.
And as I get older, I, like Papa did, look forward to the coming of Christ, the resurrection of the dead, and the gathering of God’s elect in the New Jerusalem. That is where my hope lies. And that was Papa’s hope while he lived.