LESSONS FROM GRANDPA

I grew up in a home without a father for much of my life.  This caused a big question mark in my mind about how to be one of the guys.  I had two sisters and a mom at home.  My older sister was a master negotiator, but I lost most (okay, all) of those negotiations.  Because of this, I was stuck watching Jem and the Care Bears.  I didn’t know what the other boys talked about.  I couldn’t talk about cartoons because the other boys didn’t want to talk about the Care Bears.  They didn’t know that the Care Bears had cousins, nor did they care. Everything I learned about being one of the guys I learned from Grandpa.  Grandpa lived down the street, and he always had time to answer questions about life from his extremely curious grandson.  

Grandpa had a business that supplied Mexican food products to markets and restaurants throughout the California Central Valley.  He was also a minister and taught me about the Bible.  Grandpa took me to work on his delivery route as often as possible.  During those times, I learned the importance of integrity, hard work, and being a good man.  It wasn’t uncommon for people I’d meet at the different markets or restaurants to tell me how good of a man my grandpa was.  Grandpa would have long conversations, during long drives, about fair prices in his business.  He knew everybody’s name on the route, and he always introduced me.  I felt important, sitting in a store manager’s office.  I’d always proudly wear my shirt with Grandpa’s business logo patch sewn on, so I looked official.

 

I learned how to have fun from Grandpa.  I’d get the feeling Grandpa wanted me to experience the things he enjoyed in life:  one year, we watched the Dodgers play in the World Series on Grandpa's TV.  We went to Disneyland and Universal Studios; the shark scared me, I cried.  Grandpa took us camping and boating.  If we were at his house and the ice cream man drove by, Grandpa always stopped him for treats for the grandkids. And if we missed him, that was okay because Grandpa would pack us grandkids in the car, and we’d drive through the neighborhood until we found him.

 

I learned it was okay for men to cry from Grandpa.  I got used to Grandpa crying while talking about the Bible.  The truths of God’s Word were so real to him that he’d be moved to tears.  Grandpa cried talking about family.  Following my stroke, I always felt I was on the verge of tears.  Crying became normal.  But Grandpa cried, so I was okay.  My wife has just gotten used to me crying.  Anything can do it:  a sad commercial, movie, or melody.  On my first day back to church, I cried hard, an ugly cry.  That was okay; I was with family.  They had seen me cry before.  I’d cry during preaching.  Like Grandpa, God’s Word moved me to tears.

 

I learned a man should look nice from Grandpa.  Grandpa had style.  In the '80s, Grandpa wore a Miami Vice style jacket with his sleeves rolled up, just like a Mexican Don Johnson.  I loved Grandpa’s closet.  All his fancy wing-tipped shoes lined up next to his white sneakers.  Grandpa always wore the whitest sneakers.  In the '90s Grandpa wore the Reebok “Pump” sneakers, these were the hottest basketball sneakers in the '90s, and Grandpa wore them.  I blame my shoe collection on him:  all mostly either wing-tip dress shoes or various white sneakers.  One day Grandpa took me clothes shopping.  We didn’t go to the stores I was used to: Kmart or Family Bargain Center, places my single mom could get a deal.  Grandpa took me to Mervyn’s.  I wasn’t used to such a clean store where everything was neatly arranged.  Grandpa found shorts, a t-shirt with a guy surfing on it, and a patterned button-down short-sleeved shirt.  And before we left, Grandpa said, “You need some shoes!” We picked up some white sneakers before he paid, and we left.  This wasn’t the shopping I was used to.  With Grandpa, it wasn’t about the price, it was about the look and the fit.  I remember Grandpa showing me how each garment matched.  These are the lessons I still live by today.  Things must match.  I’ve taken it a little too far though.  Now my cologne must match my clothes too.  Before, when I could walk, my shoes matched my clothes, and my hat matched my shoes.  

 

One day, as a small boy, I stood in Grandpa’s closet looking at all his ties.  I made a discovery:  ties have two ends.  One end was big, Grandpa-sized.  The opposite end was small, Israel-sized.  I shared my discovery with Grandpa.  That’s the day Grandpa had Grandma cut some of his ties in half, sending me home with a small collection of ties, Israel-sized.  Grandpa taught me to tie a tie.  I’ve probably been able to tie a tie for as long as I’ve been able to tie my shoes.  

 

Around the time when the '80s were becoming the '90s, Grandpa was scheduled to preach at a nearby town on a Sunday morning.  The evening before, he asked me if I’d be willing to preach in his place.  This was the Big Time, a Sunday morning, the big show.  He knew I had one good sermon I’d been working on, locked, and loaded.  I was a bit nervous but thought if Grandpa thought I was ready, then let’s do it.  With my black suit on and my tie tied, I walked into the building with my most prized possession in my briefcase.  My one sermon, which I’d been perfecting for months, tweaking, and rewriting until it was perfect.  All handwritten.  I remember the first revival I ever preached was a week long, and Grandpa sat in the front row all 7 days.  My first non-youth pastor position in ministry was serving as Grandpa’s assistant pastor.

 

Grandpa taught me the Bible.  In my teen years, I’d read the Bible and bring my questions to Grandpa’s dining room table, where he’d explain everything.  A question about 1 Corinthians 13 brought this lesson from Grandpa:  a Christian without love is like a flour tortilla without flour.  The lesson was simple - Christians aren’t Christians without love.  Growing up everything seemed so black and white.  You had Christians, the “good guys”, and the “worldly” people, as the church folk used to call them.  The worldly people for a church kid were those who smoked, cussed and drank alcohol.  But Grandpa had no problem treating everyone well.  I noticed Grandpa treated my neighbor, a “worldly” man, no different than he treated church people.  Grandpa always brought him tortillas.  And the neighbor liked Grandpa.  Grandpa never used his faith as a weapon against those who didn’t believe the way he did.  I was familiar with militaristic church people.  People who’d Bible-thump others and explain how they were living wrong and going straight to hell.  Grandpa knew the Bible but never used it as a weapon.  I learned how to treat people who didn’t believe like me from Grandpa.  Grandpa loved all people.  

 

Grandpa used stories to explain the Bible to me.  This shaped my preaching and pastoring.  If you went to my church, this would be familiar to you.  I preach the Bible by telling stories.  It's how Grandpa taught me.  I found I could explain complicated biblical principles by telling stories.  And people would remember the principles much easier with a story attached.  

 

One neat thing about Grandpa was people he hadn’t pastored in decades still called him pastor.  They forever viewed him as their pastor.  I stopped pastoring following my stroke.  But I still have people who call me pastor as if it's my first name.  I love it.  It makes me think I’m following in Grandpa’s footsteps.  The nicest thing someone has ever told me is that I’m like my grandpa.

 

Grandpa got Parkinson’s Disease.  That was hard.  Parkinson’s makes you lose all facial expressions.  This was hard to get used to.  Before Parkinson’s, Grandpa would light up when I walked in the room.  After Parkinson’s, it felt like he didn’t recognize me anymore.  Parkinson’s gave Grandpa a bad stutter.  I could no longer understand him.  Grandma and Mom had to interpret everything he was trying to say.  No more lessons from Grandpa.  This next part is the most shameful thing to admit:  I stopped going to see Grandpa.  I couldn’t see the strongest man I knew, weak.  This is one of my greatest regrets in life.  Early one Sunday morning in February, Grandpa died.  I preached at my church that morning, just as Grandpa taught me.

 

In 2019, I had a stroke that left me paralyzed and in a rehab hospital.  There was only one person I felt I needed to talk to in order to process where I found myself.  I wished I could once again sit at Grandpa’s dining room table and ask questions to help me make sense of this new reality.  I had one question I couldn’t seem to ever get an answer for:  Where does a pastor go when he needs a pastor?