Who Doesn't Love to Read Eulogies, Right?

Well, I write them. And then I deliver them. And yes, I, too, wonder what this says about me, but it seems to fit pretty well into the general package, so it's no big deal. They die, I write. Sometimes there's drinking in between those two things, but that's pretty much the protocol. My friend John refers to this peculiarity as "limited speaking tours."

Anyway, I don't think I ever really told you about my grandfather. He was, well, he was special. Until I was seven, I wasn't 100% sure if he was Johnny Cash, or if Johnny Cash was him. Seriously. And I was sharp in my early years. I'd never seen them in the same room and knowing my grandfather, seemed reasonable enough. It still does, sometimes. Even now, two, (three?) years done gone on to Jesus. And even these years gone, these new trials begun, I grieve him. Mostly in the early Spring when I'm tilling or planting. Or maybe mostly under the June sun when the tomatoes are turning. Or could be when I'm putting the garden to bed in the Fall. Well, I know I miss baking his favorite bread, overnightting it to him, and then hearing all about it for spending the money to overnight his Christmas gift.

But Enough. It's been a few years, right? But still, he was so much to me, so much of me- his eulogy was probably the most effortless and natural writing I've ever done, could ever hope to do. As easy as showing a picture, I swear. And now, sitting here, completely filthy and sweaty and sunburned from working in the garden (Big redheaded boy picked the first pepper this past week--how 'bout that?!) I am remembering him, his words, his work, his faith, and sweet Jesus, his garden. Now that was a garden. And he told me once that everything I ever needed to know about God, about life, I could find in the garden, if I just knew how to look. And he took the time to teach me how to look. Wish you would have known him, but since wishing ain't having, here is what I knew of him, what I saw of him, and what I got from him. This would have been in late January, so the seed references are off. I know how annoying that can be.

It’s just about time for me to start my summer seeds where I live. Most people don’t realize what a rather delicate and time-consuming process it is, and frankly, I’m glad that God handles the vast majority of the plants in the world because seeds are a pretty tricky thing. The soil has to be just right and the light has to be perfect, and the humidity has to be balanced, and even with all that, it’s a long and quiet wait before you see growth. A gardener has to have faith that seeds will turn to plants. It might be the dead heat of summer before you get something even a little bit like what you’d hoped for, and by that time, well, you’re tired and your hands ache with the effort. Still, it’s always a magnificent piece of God’s handiwork poking out of that dirt and you are glad.

My grandfather was a gardener. He was careful and patient in his garden and he knew when to give and when to hold back and his plants were, to my knowledge, inevitably fruitful and strong. When I taught at Sparrows Point, I’d sometimes stop at Kenwood avenue on the way home and Mom-mom would wipe her hands on her apron and bustle around for the cookie tin and Pop-pop would walk me to out to his garden so I could see how well, how lovely, how strong it all was. How his faith and his hard work had paid him back once again.

Amazing.

Now, I think that most grandfathers are gardeners, because even if they never no much as dig in the dirt, they plant seeds. Our parents raise us, our church and schools teach us, but it is our grandfathers who provide the good beginnings—the history, the knowledge, the wisdom, the rich soil and good light we will need to flourish and be productive.

In this respect, Pop-pop was a particularly gifted gardener. He taught me how to pick a crab and he took me to Memorial Stadium. He brought home hops from the brewery so we could see and smell how beer begins from a plant. How Baltimore, these small things, how silly even, but what better way to teach me my beginnings—where I come from—where I keep my roots?

We all know that by nature, my grandfather was not a patient man and he did not suffer fools. We know this because he was generous and unquiet with his opinions and he had a knife-sharp certainty in both his morals and his faith. In spite of his nature, tho, he was had the wisdom to be patient and steadfast and diligent with that which he knew would grow.

I burned through five years of college in no particular direction and my grandfather, who never even got to high school, watched. No sign of growth there, heaven knows, but I think he had faith and he waited. So when I came back to him, asking that I might go back to school to become a teacher, he made sure that I understood two things about an education. First, he had been his own teacher, having left school in the 8^th grade, and while this was a hard way to come by knowledge, it had graciously taught him the second thing that I needed to know—that knowledge was the single thing, the only thing that no one, no depression, no war, no job loss could take away. My grandfather, who had known mostly survival and sacrifice in his own youth—my grandfather, who had never known the luxury of youthful drifting, apparently had faith that if he sowed the seeds and kept good watch, I might grow. Might yield something worth his efforts.

I’d like to think that I did do that--if only because I learned from him that my students, and most people in fact, will flourish and grow at the hands of a loving gardener.

There are so many memories. So many family events and discussions and lessons and transitions, well, it’s a long and arduous list and I don’t believe that Pop-pop would be happy to sit through it, so I cannot rightly ask similar of you. I think that if I say to you only that my grandfather was an extraordinary man—dignified and practical, tireless and faithful, strong and focused, that you would know him just as well as if I’d passed around our family photo albums.

Neither he nor I ever imagined that we’d be so far away from each other. In our phone conversations, he would ask about my gardens and I would mostly complain about the clay-thick soil, or the drought, or even how little time I had for the labor we both loved so dearly. His response never changed. He said, “every year, you work a little bit more, clear a little bit more ground. Learn from your mistakes and look to the next season to make it better.”

His words were not meant to be left in my dry and rocky Alabama garden, I know. His words were what he practiced in his gardens, but also in his family. He gave us roots, he tended our growth, and he watched us bear fruit. All on a gardener’s faith.

I will grieve him deeply, especially in this season when I’m tending seeds and tilling ground and teaching my own children the lessons of a useful and fruitful garden. Surely, surely, I know I cannot spare him—I will mourn him harder as the days lengthen and warm and I know I will more readily stumble in my garden for the loss of his practical knowledge. By then it will be the dead of another Alabama summer and my own gardener’s faith will be nothing but spindly and sorely tested by those rocky dry patches out back where I think my gardens should have been.

But in that time, when nothing is growing and hope is a rainstorm that’s nowhere in sight, I will be more patient. I will stop and I will bless him because I know, I have seen how easily miracles can spring from the tired and calloused hands of a faithful gardener.

Next year I’ll try again. Clear more ground. Learn from mistakes and make it better.

So all this mourning and missing and emptiness is just leftover for all of us. My grandfather had a job to do. He accepted the rocky parts and learned to make them better. He did this tirelessly and well for almost a century, and now my grandfather, my beloved and watchful gardener looks out over the endless and glorious gardens in his heaven and he rests.