My Grandpa

I've been thinking lately about the past, and thinking about what I'm going to write in the book I'm writing about my life. I was going to write about high school, but that's a long and complicated story, so I'll save it for another time. Then I thought about people that have been in my life, and most of those stories are long and complicated too, and some of them read my blog, so getting the story "just right" would take a while. But my grandpa is dying, and I've been thinking about him lately, so I figured that might be a good place to start.

It's actually kind of interesting that I've been thinking about my grandpa so much, because I'm not actually that close to him, even though he's the only grandpa I've ever known. Grandpa Seaton died when I was about 3, and the only memories I have of him is a picture in my mind from when he visited us in Houston, and a memory of his burial, where I in my 3 year old mind couldn't understand how Grandpa could fit underneath the tarp that was only about 3 inches off the ground. But this Grandpa, Grandpa Brownell has always been around.

When I was little, we lived in Houston, and we'd fly back to visit Syracuse, where both my parents grew up, once or twice a year usually in the summer and sometimes at Thanksgiving or maybe Christmas. I always thought that was fun, because we'd see real snow, and get to make snowmen and snow angels (a novelty for us Texans!) I remember my grandparents meeting us at the gate, and riding home in their old Buicks or Oldsmobiles with the cushy seats. It's kind of strange, whenever I think of Grandpa Brownell, I don't usually think of him, I think of things associated with him, like his cars or the old falling down house they used to live in on Kirkville Road with the scary basement and huge vent in the middle of the hallway floor, or the time he took us down to the fire hall to see the fire engines and where my mom went to kindergarten. For some reason, I've always been hesitant to talk to these grandparents very much, maybe because I never knew what to say or what to ask when my parents were sitting in the same room, and they usually monopolized the conversation.

Most of my memories of my grandfather though are actually from the last 12 years or so, after he had his stroke and was confined to a wheelchair or his recliner. Somehow he became a little more approachable then. Maybe it's because he no longer towered over me (he's 6' plus or minus an inch or two) or because he had more time to sit and chat or I grew out of my shyness, or whatever. I remember being sad to see my grandpa in a wheelchair, but it's never seemed like a disability to me. It just became a little harder to play Scrabble or dominos with only one hand, but he did it well enough. I always knew he was in the army and the Korean War, but when I came to college in PA and actually knew where Fort Indiantown Gap was, it made it a little more interesting to me. He's had a hard life - he lost his only son during an operation for brain cancer when my uncle Gary was only 10. I don't think he's quite ever gotten over that, even though it's been 40+ years. But Grandpa has always been the sensitive one - he'd cry without fail everytime we left to go back to Houston on the plane, or everytime we get in the car to drive home. I never really knew any other grown man that would cry that openly, and it always made me want to cry, even just now thinking of it. I guess he knew how quickly life can disappear, or how each goodbye might be the last.

Even though we've been through this before (we thought it was the end my junior year in college and made a trip up to NY) I think this time it really is the end of the road for Grandpa. I think one of the things that makes me saddest is for my grandma, who will be married to him 52 years on Monday, and my mom. After all, even though he was just my grandpa who I didn't know very well, he was her dad. He was the one who yelled at her for going 70 miles an hour down a hill during the midst of the gas crisis in the 70's (she claims she couldn't help it, she was going downhill), and who taught her to be so good at Scrabble. He was the one who was a volunteer firefighter, driving the truck since he couldn't walk well enough to actually go in and put out the fires. I think that was the thing that made me proudest of him ever since I was little - the fact that he was a firefighter, and eventually won an award for his long years of service (30 or more?). But now all that is over, and we're just waiting for the end. Sneaks up on you kinda fast.

Catharsis

Yesterday evening, I was on my way to my parents and listening to the Writer's Almanac by Garrison Keillor on NPR. He was going through this day in history, and it was the birthday of W.C. Fields. And he gave two quotes that fit exactly with stuff I've been thinking about lately, so I thought I'd share them. And there's a few people I need to tell the second quote, but we'll chat later :)

Quote 1:
"It ain't what they call you, it's what you answer to."

Quote 2: "There comes a time in the affairs of man when he must take the bull by the tail and face the situation."

Reflections

Last weekend, I went on a retreat in Sandy Cove, MD with the Christian Medical Society, which was a really great experience. The speaker, Dr. John Patrick, encouraged us to write our stories - to put down on paper our testimony and the various ways that God has worked in our lives. I have always said that I'm going to write a book before I die about my life, and some of the crazy things that have happened and just how God has worked in my life. A few months ago, I wrote to Susan Isaacs, a woman who has a blog and who had been looking for a church home. She was kind of stuck between a more liturgical service and an "emerging church" style service. So I wrote to her, sharing my experience and explaining why I love going to my church here in Dillsburg. Just thought I'd post an excerpt from that e-mail and begin telling my story.

I've grown up mostly in non-denominational and "emerging" churches for most of my life. When I was young we lived in Houston, and attended one a Vineyard church, which was a good experience (vibrant worship, etc....). My family left Houston at the beginning of the Toronto revival movement, when the whole "being slain in the spirit" thing started happening. I was a teenager then, and some of the experiences were moving, but at points I don't think I understood it very well. Then we moved to VA to a small college town and we went to the church my parents had gone to 20 years earlier, when my dad was in grad school. It was non-denominational, but my parents' reaction when we returned was "it was the same people sitting in the same chairs (70's folding chairs with bright yellow cushions) wearing the same clothes and singing the same songs". For some reason they stuck it out, hoping to convince their friends of the benefits of moving into the modern world, and really discovering what it meant to be a Christian in the context of a broader society. Well, four years later, the church split after a HORRIBLE year of fighting, secrecy, gossip, and all sorts of crazy stuff (like a woman accusing another of demon possession and extracting spiritual power every time they hugged). It was insanity (literally, perhaps!)

All of that happened my senior year of high school, and I went off to college kind of bitter, hurt and not knowing what to think or how to trust or relate to Christians. I never gave up on Christ, but Christians were another story. I still was unsure of more traditional churches, because they didn't produce that exhilarating feeling or the emotional high of the Vineyard type And I wasn't quite ready to trust people either. For a year I went to a large church with several services. I always went to the middle service and felt shuffled in and out to make room for the next crowd. It was hard to connect with people because there were just so many people there. In the meantime back home, my parents were going to another "emerging" church which was great, with its freedom and, yes, it did that painting thing too! But when I went home and would cry because of the bitterness and hurt I had towards the church that split, people would lay hands on me and try to get me to somehow have complete spiritual healing all in one day. And that didn't feel right either. I needed to have time to grieve and process the living hell church people put me through during my senior year in high school, which was supposed to be a great time in my life.

So my second year of college, I happened upon a church that was Brethren in Christ. I was a little wary at first; because the little I knew about the denomination was that they started in PA and were from the Anabaptist, Weslyan and Pietist traditions. I was envisioning a church just one step closer to the modern world from the Amish, with traditional sits and stands and passing the peace and the Apostle's Creed and only super old hymns. Not that any of that is bad, it's just not what I thought I was looking for at the time.

To my utter surprise, the church was nothing like what I had envisioned. We went the first Sunday, and people were nice - came up to us, introduced themselves, and it was a good service. A mix of more contemporary songs and traditional hymns, a really neat and well balanced service. The message was good, but what I liked the most about it was that there was a time between the singing and the sermon for anyone in the congregation to share what God had been doing in their life. Old, young, mentally handicapped, whatever, you were free to share any experience you thought would benefit the church. So I thought, hmm, that's neat, maybe I'll come back. The next week, we returned, and what stood out to me was PEOPLE REMEMBERED OUR NAMES. Not just one or two people, but everyone we had talked to that first week. And as my roommates and I kept attending, it was just evident that God's love was there. There were special Sundays like "special needs" Sundays, where the mentally challenged lead worship and shared God's love. They had missions Sundays where we would gather for a meal native to the country of our speaker after church. They talk about things relevant to everyday life, not always some lofty "spiritual" lesson, though they have those too.

I guess what I love the most about my church is the genuineness of the people in it. These are everyday people living everyday lives who are Christians too. We debate about politics and social justice issues. The church is constantly trying to make the church accessible to people that might never want to step foot in a "church". We have dinner theaters every year to just have fun and enjoy a play with a message such as getting along with difficult people, or just trying to give people a chance to laugh and enjoy life. (The first dinner theater I went to was a sock hop theme, with swing dance lessons before the play!) I have felt totally comfortable taking my non-Christian friends to church with me – I know that they will hear God’s word in a relevant, non-threatening way, and I’ve seen my non-Christian friends changed by what they’ve heard at my church. I guess the best way to say it is that the people in this church care about each other and everyone around them, and are down to earth, NORMAL people. They don't condemn movies or on the other end overspiritualize anything; yet if you meet them, you can tell that something is different. No one is pushy about their faith or trying a bunch of gimmicks to get you to come to church, or convert. They're just living their lives, genuinely concerned about others, and inviting them along on their journey. They are honest about their joys as well as their failures, and are willing to share life's experiences and come alongside when you just need an ear to listen.