Another day with Grandpa...

Sometimes I wish I could have a day with grandpa again.

Even now, 17 years after he died, I miss him. Strangely, it's actually been nearly 29 years since we've had a conversation that wasn't challenging. Grandpa had a stroke back in 1984. I remember that year pretty clearly. He was in the hospital for quite awhile, leaving my cousins and I at home where we watched the Olympics. You may remember that year because of Mary Lou Retton, Carl Lewis, Edwin Moses, Rowdy Gaines, and others who graced our televisions with incredible feats of athleticism. I remember it, and those Olympic games in Los Angeles, as a way to pass the time while grandpa recovered.

Until that time, grandpa spent hours with the kids at some point just about every summer in Richardson, Texas. We rode with him on the tractor (OK, riding lawn mower). We knew where his stash of ice-cold Dr. Peppers and watermelon were kept in the old fridge in the garage. My cousins and I played hide and seek, and I only now know where the best hiding place really was. He used to keep the air conditioning in the living room at temperatures that would make a good Minnesotan button the top button of his flannel shirt (hey, summertime near Dallas is amazingly hot, so we loved it), and we always loved making as many blanket and pillow forts as possible. Grandpa used to set up a flimsy hose on a pole in the back yard that would wildly whip around spraying us (and occasionally whacking us upside the head if we weren't careful). And tickle? Oh wow, the side stitches from laughter are still memorable!

He would have absolutely adored our kids. He was a faithful elder in his church, and even a solid greeter years after his stroke stole away his ability to smoothly communicate with people.

On the day of his funeral, I was able to keep things together until I was alone with one of my cousins with whom much of those good times were shared. Not until then did I really break down at all. I think it has to do with shared experience. It's not that we always got along beautifully. I know I annoyed her to death at times, as she did me. I'm sure we both combined well to drive her older sister nuts. We could both be hard-headed and argumentative kids. But in that moment, it didn't matter. A man we both adored, around whom much of our relationship revolved, would now sleep for the rest of our lives on earth. I know we all miss Grandpa. I know my dad and my aunt do. I know Grandma really does.

I read today the story of Lazarus' resurrection in John 11. Here was a man dead for 4 days. Jesus could have kept him from dying much sooner than He did. He had done so for a little girl once, but was then accused of just waking her up from a deep sleep, that she wasn't really dead at all. People opposed to Him and His brand of "messiahship" accused Him of doing miracles by the power of Satan. He knew that there were those who doubted His ability, in the long run, to even resurrect the dead to eternal life at the last day.

He worked with people that day, asking them to roll the stone away from the tomb. In front of everyone, with everyone able to see the dead man lying there in the tomb, with everyone able to smell his decomposing flesh, Jesus stood. He spoke aloud to His Father, naming God as His Father--thereby staking claim to His own divinity. He spoke to the one that everyone could see was dead, and the dead man heard him, stood up, and walked out of the grave! When they'd removed those nasty death clothes, there stood a man in perfect health as though he was in the prime of his life!

Never was there more obvious evidence that Jesus was who He said He was. To deny Him at this point, to plot His death, whether that plot could succeed or not, was to plot against One who was obviously the Son of God. It was to consciously side oneself with the losing side in the great controversy between God and Satan.

But that evidence encourages me today, nearly 2,000 years removed from the event. It is convincing and convicting evidence, alongside the fact that Jesus Himself rose from the dead, that death has no real power over me. It has no real power over anyone who believes. It has no real power over Grandpa.

Lazarus came forth renewed. No trace of the disease that killed him remained in his body. One day, for the first time since 1984, I'll get to talk with Grandpa again without his having to struggle to tell me what he wants me to hear. It will be as though the stroke never happened. I can't wait!