I started my last blog,
in Sorrow, by writing about the death of my Grandpa. But that post wasn't about him. This post is.
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| Grandpa Bob with Bonnie and myself, Summer 2010 |
My Grandpa Bob was an interesting, stubborn, intelligent, varied, playful, scary man. He fought in France during WWII... and he had the German uniform and Nazi flag, plucked from a liberated building, to prove it. Once he set his mind on a business deal, vacation spot or restaurant, you couldn't change it. I was afraid of him for much of my childhood, but as I grew up and he mellowed significantly, I came to appreciate his giant, rib-crushing bear hugs. He started working in the Texas oil fields as a teenager, and continued to be a hard worker... even after he retired! He passed away a month shy of his 90th birthday... and even though he was old, could barely walk, and was losing a crippling battle with diabetes, he would still get down on the floor to play with his grandkids.
But I already knew all of this before his funeral. When my Dad delivered an amazing eulogy, none of this information was new to me.
But then my Dad told another story. One that only my Aunt Sue and the members of a small Spanish congregation on the West side of Houston knew about.
Every weekend. my Grandpa insisted that my Aunt Sue drive him to church. (I told you he was stubborn!) But it wasn't the church that he had been attending since before I was born. It wasn't the church where he was a member. It wasn't even a church that he could understand! It was a Spanish congregation that was renting the building where my Grandpa had attended services. And Grandpa went faithfully, every week.
My Grandpa didn't speak Spanish.
My Grandpa didn't understand any of the music.
My Grandpa couldn't even stay awake for most of the message.
But he still went every week.
And at the funeral, almost the entire church family came to pay their last respects to my Grandpa Bob. And when my Dad asked their pastor why they had all come, he responded that Bob was one of the most encouraging, supportive men he had even met. A Pastor, encouraged by an old man who couldn't understand him or stay awake during his sermons.
This is significant.
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| at Galveston Beach in Texas |
This year, as I have laid aside my jobs, my travels, my "spiritual spotlight," and my identity as a single woman, I have struggled with feeling insignificant... wondering if I have a purpose or impact on the people and world around me. Since September when these moments have occurred, I have remembered my Grandpa Bob... and realized that as long as I am open to God's plans (whatever they may be!), then nothing is insignificant.
