“Get your
feet off the table, young lady.”
It was the
first time I’d ever been in trouble with my grandpa. I was four years old, and independent. After being asked more than once by my mother
to take my feet off the dining room table (during dinner), Papaw was fed up
with my lack of listening skills. He
raised his voice at me and I looked wide-eyed at him in shock. As the tears started welling up in my eyes, I
looked around the table to see everyone else’s faces displaying the same shock
as mine. Papaw does not yell.
I heard his
voice loud and clear. You better believe
I never put my feet anywhere near that table again.
Since that
day, I’ve listened carefully to Papaw’s voice.
His morning
voice- between slurps of coffee, he’d count money from the family restaurant in
a whisper as the coins slid effortlessly into his hands from the tile counter.
His story voice-
as he shakes some salt into his freshly poured beer: “At International
Harvester they tried to promote me. They
said, ‘Yeah, you can be the guy who’s in charge of these other guys.’ They paid for me to take this trip and I
drank beer on an air plane. I’m telling
you they opened a case and just started rolling the cans down the aisle! But after the trip I didn’t want to be
promoted… didn’t want to be in charge of the other guys.”
His advice
voice- to his seven grandchildren: “I read this article in Playboy…”
His
thankful voice- he’d brush the crumbs from his snow white mustache and stand up
from the dinner table encouraging everyone to join him in a round of applause
for the cook (his wife). “That meal was
what I like to call a D-N-S.” Does. Not.
Suck.
His humble
voice- after Mammy’s heart attack, stroke, and a month-long stay in a rehab
facility, it took three people to carry Mammy in her wheel chair up the stairs
in their house. We looked around knowing
that the “long journey” the doctors kept referring to was just beginning. With a tear rolling down his tired cheek,
Papaw said, “this is the third best day of my life. The first best day is the day I got
married. The second best two days were
when my children were born. And this right
now is the third. I brought my wife
home, and she’s here with me where she belongs.”
My favorite
Papaw voice is the one he uses in church.
I come from
a family of talent across the board. My
brother is an artist on all sorts of levels- he holds a degree in
cinematography from Columbus College of Art and design. My sister can sing… like opera… and she’s
good (I can sort of carry a tune, but I’m jealous of her). My youngest brother can pick up any
instrument and be proficient in just days (but seriously, you should see that
dude on the drums). My uncle is an all-around
entertainer- he’s in a band and leads worship at my church (guitar and vocals). My grandma is petrified of the stage, but she’s
well versed in shower and car singing.
She won’t admit it, but she has a beautiful voice. My mom and grandpa… well…. They have really
kind hearts but they have zero rhythm or sense of musicality. They’re tone deaf.
But on
Sunday mornings, Papaw lifts his very off pitch singing voice to the Lord. The band will start to play a song he
recognizes and he’ll turn to all of us encouraging us to get into the music
like he is… most of the time he offers a gesture suggesting he’s starting a
motorcycle? We have no idea… bless him.
He knows
the words and he lifts his hands and he cries out to God. He bounces up and down (not) to the beat of
the music. Sometimes he’s so overwhelmed
he cries. He sings so loudly that it’s
hard to sing the correct melody when you stand next to him.
Papaw lives
in a world of uncertainty. He has
dementia. Sometimes he can’t remember
who his wife is. He has nightmares and doesn’t
sleep well. He’s confused by the
slightest change in a daily schedule.
Last week he forgot how to take communion at church. He can tell you a 20 minute long story about
drag racing in his red hot rod when he was young- every single detail- but
other days he tells you he’s saving space in the garage because he’s buying an
old hot rod to work on.
In Papaw’s
mind, one thing is for certain - music on Sunday mornings at St. John’s
Lutheran church. Music is a
constant. God is constant. His faith is constant. Even if he can’t find the silverware drawer,
he can find his familiar singing position, and he can find Christ. Over and over again.
Papaw sings
to the Lord. And the Lord sings back to
him. Constantly.
