A Real Passion For Family

A few days ago John Grimes passed away after 92 years of living and being on this earth.  Many of you who read this blog never met John, so an introduction is in order.  John was born and raised and lived his days in west-central Indiana.  He was a farmer, and later in life a salesman.  He and his wife, Lil, had three children and their second child, their only daughter, is the mother of my wife. 

John's life will not, in all likelihood, be the source of a bestselling biography or a Hollywood blockbuster staring George Clooney, or even spawn a reality TV show.  This is not to say that John did not make a mark on his world.  He did.  It is just that our culture does not tend to elevate to the status of celebrity a man who taught Sunday School for decades, was an elder of his church, a Mason, a Gideon, and for a number of years was active in a prison ministry.  Even Jimmy Cater had to become President before he got noticed for doing many of the same things that John did.

In so many ways John was just an average man, a product of his time and place, a solid representative of his generation of Americans.  His passing will be celebrated and mourned by his family and friends and then he will fade into obscurity like so many average people do.  If so, that will be a real tragedy.  John may not have saved the world from a nuclear holocaust or invented a life-altering medical procedure or even left behind a body of work that people will read or watch or listen to for decades.  But John had a passion, a deep, real, burning passion for something that all of us need - family.  John did not talk about family he lived it.  And in his own way he taught his granddaughter, and her husband, just how valuable family is.

In the back room of his home John had something of a study.  In it he keep a number of books, the kind that make professional historians and theologians roll their eyes.  They were popular books, not the "serious" work preferred by those of us who make our living writing "serious" books that men like John have no use for.  His study also contained his collection of Native American arrowheads he had found throughout west-central Indiana, some records and tapes, a least one calendar he got from a farm implement company every year, a desk, and a couple of chairs.  It also was home to his most prized possession - his family genealogy.  John had traced his family history back, way back, to Europe at the time of the Reformation.  He knew the names of his fore parents, where they lived, and that some of his kin were leaders in the newly created Protestant church.  This genealogy was a labor of love and a source of great pride to John.  I am not sure, it has been 18 years after all, but I believe that I was introduced to this genealogy on my very first visit to his home - when his granddaughter and I were still just dating!

John's passion for his family history infected my wife.  I am not even sure where some of my cousins, first cousins, are living, and yet John's granddaughter can tell you about people who lived hundreds of years ago.  And mind you, I am the professional historian!  That genealogy has always humbled me.  It reminds me how I have allowed myself think that the world begins with me, or goes back no farther than my parents.  So often in our culture we forget that we do have ancestors.  And while we are not restricted to follow in their path, we are a product of those who went before us.  Not knowing their story only impoverishes our lives.

If there was anything that exceeded John's obsession with his ancestors it was his love for the living members of his family.  John needed to be surrounded my his family.  For a number of years he organized a yearly Grimes Family Reunion.  He knew all the family gossip and certainly had his favorites.  But if you did not make it to the reunion you were missed (and made to feel no small amount of guilt.  Trust me.)  What always amazed me about John was that he seemed to genuinely be glad whenever family came by.  Even when my wife and I were dating he welcomed me into his home as a long lost relative.  His face would light up when you came to the door and then we would reach out with his old farmers hands, place one on your shoulder and with the others grip your hand so tightly and strongly that you thought your bones would break.  This greeting was not a display of power but a authentic expression of his joy at seeing you.

John would talk your ear off, telling you about what was going on with other family members, show you any new photos he had of his ever growing family tree, and still find time to tell you a story from his past that you had heard about a hundred times before.  And yet, he always seemed interested in what was going on in your life.  He wanted to know how things we going.  Part of this was paternal caring, but a good bit had to do with his need to keeping adding to the family lore. 

John redefined for me what it means to be gracious and welcoming.  Never once was I in his presence and made to feel like an outsider.  John made me feel loved and important from the first moment I meet him until our last visit on Thanksgiving night.  He taught me that family is not a burden but a gift.  And he lived that belief out in his own life.  He and Lil were more than grandparents to my wife.  They helped raise her and would even drive her back and forth to college (and eight hour drive each way).  John made time for family.  Nothing, short of his faith in God, was more important to him.  Family was an expression of his faith in God.

I miss John already.  I am so proud to be part of his family and so grateful that my children will benefit from his wisdom and example.

Last One Standing

As I write this my mother is facing a very sad time in her life.  Her little brother recently suffered a massive heart attack and his family made the difficult decision to remove all life-support systems.  He is likely to pass from this world within a few hours.  Her older sister is in a nursing home after having had a stroke that has left her in a coma.  She is not expected to ever regain consciousness and her sons are struggling to figure out when it is time to say goodbye.  My grandfather, her Dad, died before I was born and my grandmother passed almost 20 years ago.  Soon, my mother will be the last member of her family left in this world. 

When I was a kid I relished those few occasions when I was the only one at home.  With three siblings, quality "me" time was hard to come by.  I would pass up going places just so I could be home by myself, free to watch what I wanted on TV, or take a nap, or raid the kitchen.  What made those times so special was the knowledge that within a few hours my family would be back home.  I could enjoy the peace and quiet in part because I knew I was not going to be alone forever.  The idea that my Mom, brother, or sisters would never come back again seldom crossed my mind, unless I was really mad in which case I might fantasize about the whole lot of them being abducted by aliens.  Even those desires were short lived (most of the time).

Eventually all of my siblings left home for good.  At one point my brother lived in Alaska, I lived in Kansas City, my mother and younger sister in St. Louis and my older sister in New York.  Family reunions were and are rare.  Yet they are possible.  Even though my parents are divorced they are still alive.  I can call either one up at will or trek to Kansas or Florida to see them.  That is a nice feeling (even if I don't do it nearly as often as a good son should). 

Only in her mid-60s, my mother is now alone.  The memories or family vacations, holidays, and other events that were important to the Davis clan reside only with her.  There is no one left to reminisce with, no one else who can recall the sights, sounds, smells and tastes.  As the middle child, I doubt that my mother ever dreamed that the day would come, so early in life, when she would be home alone.  For good.

Not only is she alone, but everyone else is together someplace else.  What they are experiencing I don't know.  One day I will find out for myself, so will my Mom.  But for now, they are enjoying it without her.  The longing to be reunited is a strong emotion, yet so is the desire to live a long full life.  There are kids and grandkids to be loved and enjoyed.  A husband to spend time with.  Friends who need her.  Yet, the pull must be there, to a place unseen, but real.  A dearly adored Dad gone for too many years, a Mom and brother and sister and the promise of restored relationships.  The communion they are all sharing at this moment will have to wait for my Mom. 

One day I too may be the last one standing.  I do not hope for that day.  I want to live a long life, a good life, but for some reason I have no desire to be the one who gets left turning off the lights.  I will happily leave that task to my younger brother or sister.  At my passing they can tell all the old stories of our childhood (and a few made up ones as well) and relive the good and bad times, if they choose.  I don't mind going ahead and getting things ready for them.  At least I will know that there is someone to say goodbye who remembers a different me, the one that still believed in Santa, hunted for Easter eggs, and pretended to be Luke Skywalker when we played in the basement.

I love my mother more than she may realize.  I hurt for her right now.  I hope she can take some comfort in the promise that there will come a day when she will not be alone.  Selfishly, I pray it does not come too soon.  When it does, I know I will find a way to rejoice that her family is together again in the loving embrace of the God who created and loves them.