Dear readers, the events of the past few years as I walked with Mom and Dad on their Homeward journeys have filled my mind and heart with myriad images and emotions, plenty to ponder, process, and write about in the coming weeks. But today, the brain fog of grief is still with me, and those images and emotions are jumbled together, so I’m rerunning one of my favorite posts with a brief intro.

Last Wednesday, we laid Dad to rest in the little country cemetery where Mom, my husband Ray, and many other cherished relatives are already interred. Until Mom’s funeral two years ago, the peaceful place was an abstract idea for my grandchildren, “where Grandpa Kuipers is buried.” But now they’ve sat in the same wooden pews where several generations of Phillips relatives sat and have seen the Sunday school classroom where I heard Bible stories before joining adults for worship when I visited as a child. They’ve seen the grave markers and felt the tranquility that permeates the very breeze that gently ruffles the leaves of decades-old trees that tower above them.

They’ve also walked the aisles of the general store just down the street from the little church, the same aisles I trod with my beloved grandfather six decades ago. I wrote “Eating Apples” in loving memory of him. I’m not sure if he was the first believer in his family or if our Christian legacy began even further back. Regardless, his faith and faithfulness formed a significant link in my heritage, one that is now shaping a fourth generation.

With the passing of each loved one, the hope of heaven becomes increasingly precious. Just as there is a spot between Mom and Ray waiting to receive my earthly remains, I know Jesus is preparing a place where I will dwell with Him forever. Until then, I pray He will help me to be faithful in sharing His goodness and grace with those He places in my path.

And now, let me introduce you to PaPa, my beloved grandfather.

Eating Apples – encore

So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13

Cherished Memories

I don’t have many distinct memories of my grandfather since I was in first grade when he passed away. However, I cherish the recollections I do have. Details provided by my mom as she spoke lovingly of her father over the years complete my mental portrait of this kind and gentle man. 

Born July 31, 1890, James Alton Phillips was a short fellow, about 5’ 3”, who weighed 125 pounds, give or take a few. Genetics undoubtedly played a part in his slight build, but a lifetime of hard work farming his land also contributed to his compact physique. My mom was the baby of her family, the youngest of eight siblings, and her father’s darling. He called her “Babe” and warmed her clothes by the fire before she went to school on cold mornings.

Occasionally my grandmother, sterner in her demeanor, would delegate the task of disciplining a wayward child to my grandfather. He would take the offending party outside beyond her view and tell the child to cry out while he used the switch on some inanimate object instead of their legs.

As for me, I recall walking hand in hand with him to the small general store, stopping by the post office to check Box 73 for mail, and waiting for the train to come by so we could wave to the conductor and count the cars. But my favorite activity was eating apples with him. “PaPa,” as I called him, would sit me on his lap, producing an apple in one hand and a small knife in the other. He’d cut a slice for me, then a slice for himself. Back and forth the ritual would continue until we finished the tasty fruit. For as long as I can remember, I’ve eaten an apple almost every day. And when I do, I always think of my grandfather.

A Godly Man

“Mr. Jim,” as the people around town knew him, was a man of faith, a deacon in the tiny country church where he worshiped. He embodied the fruits of the Spirit – love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, kindness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22-23). When he suffered a heart attack a few months before he died, the doctor told him he had to limit his physical activities. The doctor’s order was like a death sentence for a man who loved his garden and was used to being outside. He’d sit in the kitchen of the home he shared with my grandmother, his wife of 55 years, turn his gaze toward the little church, and comment he’d rather be in the cemetery than just sitting around.

Nearly 58 years ago, on October 25, 1965, God called PaPa Home. He had gone outside to check on some work a neighbor was doing for him, work he would much rather have done himself. In a fitting end to his earthly life, he died in his garden. I can still hear my mother’s anguished cry, “No, not Daddy!,” when she received the phone call telling her of his passing.

Abiding Love

Although our relationship was brief in terms of time, and nearly six decades have passed since we last shared an apple, PaPa’s love impacts me to this day. Years after his death, the large corporation I worked for sent me to a training course, one of many I attended during my career. But that one, a self-awareness workshop, was different. A team of psychologists facilitated it, and it was intense. One of our first exercises involved closing our eyes and imagining a safe place. I immediately envisioned myself in my grandfather’s lap, sharing an apple with him. The physical nourishment we’d partaken of paled compared to the bonds of unconditional love and acceptance formed during our time together.

Today I’m privileged to be “Grammie” to three precious grandchildren. Sharing snacks, especially apples, is one of my favorite things to do with them. It connects me to them and them to my grandfather, who they’ve come to know by my loving accounts of my short yet precious time with him.

A Promised Reunion

I don’t get to visit the small graveyard where my grandparents and many other maternal relatives are laid to rest as often as I’d like. My husband Ray is buried there, too, near my sister, Mary Jeannette, who died in infancy. Last spring, Mom took her place between them, leaving a space for me.

When I worked, my job frequently took me to that area of North Carolina, and I’d visit the cemetery as often as possible. I would gaze at the tombstones, each representing someone I love and long to see again, pondering how glorious it will be when we all rise to new life, a life that will never end (1 Thessalonians 4:13-18). For the love we share now is but a shadow of the Love that awaits when the Everlasting Arms reach out to embrace us and welcome us Home (1 Corinthians 13:4-13).

Until then, I’ll remain thankful for little rituals and rock-solid faith, lovingly shared, that can reach across the decades, blessing one generation after another.

O Lord, how great are the gifts of familial love and a heritage of faith! Please help us to be resolute in telling those coming along behind us about Your great love and faithfulness so that they, too, may know the joy and peace of belonging to Your family.