Precious Memory

In chapel ysterday morning, we watched more of a video about the children of WWII vets.  One son took his son to Iwo Jima to help the boy understand the sacrifice his grandfather made on his behalf.

It brought back a memory of my own.  He was my great uncle, but he reared my mother as his own daughter because my grandmother died when Mom was seven years old.  If you've read my book, you'll see the story in there.  No, I was not being imaginative, it actually happened.

We called  him "Pop."  It's gratifying to have such a wonderful memory of a man who believed deeply in God and who lived his life to honor God.  My granddaughter seems to long for the times I grew up in.  Her comparison with today's world always leaves her longing for more honest times.  Those days were more honest, more simple, more trustworthy, more noble.....you get the picture.  I just wish there were some way my granddaughter could do more than long for days like that.

On the day I remember so vividly, it's like it happened yesterday.  My cousin and I were playing some game when we come into the dining room and spotted Pop at his usual spot, kneeling in front of his rocking chair, praying.  How that man prayed.  Even though I was only nine and my cousin four, I still remember how he would sit in the rocker and read his Bible in a hoarse whisper.  Then, he'd kneel in front of his rocker and pray in that same hoarse whisper.  No matter what activity swirled throughout the rest of that large, old farmhouse, Pop would read his Bible and pray first thing every morning. I firmly believe that's why I grew up in a sweeter, simpler, nobler, safer, more honest, more trustworthy time.  I seriously doubt Pop was the only man in America praying like that.

Hey, New York newspaper, maybe God isn't fixing this because America has stopped praying.  Or as James says, maybe we Americans are praying for the wrong things and the wrong reasons. Do a paradigm shift in your thinking.  Couldn't hurt and it might help.  But, I digress.

Often, Pop would lift his hand and face toward heaven as he prayed, emphasizing his adoration or supplication.  Whichever it was, I do not know.  When Pop prayed, we left him alone to be with the Lord as a matter of respect.

Except my four year old cousin, Pop's only grandson.  That mischievous four year old turned to me and said, "Let's get a horsey ride on Grandpa!"

"No!  He's praying!" was my horrified response.

"He won't care.  I do it all the time," came his reply as he left me to watch in shock.  He hopped his grandpa's back, riding him with all the glee and fervor only a rambunctious four old could muster.

Pop never acknowledges his grandson in anyway.  He continued to pray with a fervor that matched his grandson's.  He was no different that any other day I witnessed his time of prayer.  My cousin actually tired before Pop did.  We trailed off to other adventures while Pop remained on his knees. Thanks, Pop you taught me a lot.