Dear Cornerstone Family,
Today is the one Sunday a year set aside to remember the legacy of the Protestant Reformation and give thanks for the dead in Christ on whose shoulders we stand. By way of preparation, I spent time this week giving thanks for my spiritual relatives—those with whom I share the same Heavenly Father, and the same elder brother. We are not family by blood. We are family because we are blood-bought.
I have the privilege of being blood-bought kin with many of my blood kin. One of those was my grandfather, Grover Mann. I can see why the name Grover has fallen out of fashion, though he took pride in being named after the 22nd and 24th President of the United States. “The only President to serve two non-consecutive terms,” as I was sometimes reminded. Be that as it may, he was Papaw to me.
Papaw grew up dirt poor as we’d say. Which is why his education was cut short. As best as we can tell, the 4th grade was the pinnacle of his educational achievement. At 9 or 10, he joined the work force, spending most of his days picking cotton, doing his part to bring home the bacon.
Papaw never learned to read. I remember him asking me to read a label for him. He said the writing was too small for his bad eyes, but I was old enough to know better. He tried to overcome it later in life; mainly because he wanted to read the Bible. His daughter, my Mom, taught him to read a little after he retired. Can’t say how much he learned, but I have a vivid memory of he and Mom crouched over a Bible at the dining room table sounding out words.
Papaw was blown up in a jeep in WW2. He was laid up for months in a German hospital. He received a purple heart. He rarely ever talked about it, but the reality of it lurked in his subconscious. He’d relive the battle scenes in his dreams, often springing from bed in the middle of the night to jump in a fox hole. He loved his country. The red, white, and blue always waved from his front porch.
I took over mowing his grass after his knee replacement. Whenever I’d finish, I’d come in and sit a spell with him as he watched wrestling on TV. There we’d sit, quiet before the glow of the TV screen watching Hulk Hogan and Randy Savage go at it. Papaw loved wrestling. I never will understand that.
In high school, we’d meet up on Saturday mornings at Hardee’s. Before I headed off to baseball practice or work, he’d buy me breakfast. We’d sit together with the old timers. I’d listen as they talked about the news, weather, and how things aren’t what they used to be. Before I’d leave, he’d find a way to brag on me to them. It was part of how I know he loved me.
Papaw wasn’t often vocal about his faith. Men of his generation kept such matters close to the vest. But he loved Jesus; he assured me of this from time to time. As my penchant for theology developed, he occasionally asked me questions about the Bible, most often about the end times. After he was diagnosed with lung cancer, he queried about heaven. It was one of the last conversations we ever shared. Though his voice was reduced to a raspy whisper by then, he choked out the words, “I’m ready to go. I’m not afraid. I know where I am going.”
Today, I give thanks to God for Papaw, and for all those in the faith who have arrived at where they were going and have showed the way to us who remain. Until we meet again.
Your servant,
