Based on the eulogy I delivered at the funeral of my grandmother, Marian Smith, in March, 2006. I dedicated my first book, Mrs. Hunter's Happy Death, to my grandmother. She died the day before it first appeared in bookstores.
This is a tale of three books, the first being the spiral-bound Spiderman notebook that belongs to Jacob, my four year-old son. The night before I left town to go to my grandmother’s funeral, I grabbed the notebook and a pencil as Jacob climbed into his bed, and I asked him if he wanted to write a note to his great-grandmother, whom he has always called “Gigi.”
Jacob thought for just a minute, then motioned for me to bend over so he could whisper in my ear.
“I love you,” he said. “I miss you. I want to visit with you in heaven.”
Jacob giggled and sat up straight in his bed as I read his words back to him. Then, with a curious smile and a nod of his head, he said to me confidently, almost smugly, “You show her that. I think she will like what I wrote.”
Indeed his Gigi would have liked what Jacob wrote.
My grandmother, Marian Alice Sliker, was born in Howard, Kansas on September 18, 1909. Raised by devout Methodist parents, she thought in her teenage years of becoming a foreign missionary – a common thought among Christian women of her generation. Then one day it occurred to her that she could be a missionary right there in Kansas. In fact that is what she did with her life, dedicating herself to family and friends, neighbors and church, and a life of service to others.
Across the course of her life my grandmother proved especially devoted to the religious practice of “visitation.” For decades she served as one of her church’s parish visitors, making appointed rounds to see the sick and hospitalized and shut-in. By all accounts she was an extraordinarily good visitor, as comfortable praying for those who couldn’t speak as she was in gabbing it up with those who were starved for conversation.
My Grammy met Jacob in person only once – last Thanksgiving, three months before she died. Jacob was already four years old by then, but I had filled the years since his birth with many things (important things, I’m sure) and so had failed to bring Jacob from California for a visit.
On Thanksgiving Day my father brought my grandmother home from the convalescent home where she spent the last six months of her life. My mother prepared a turkey dinner and there in her kitchen Gigi met her youngest great-grandson. I don’t know exactly what my grandmother said to Jacob when she introduced herself – she spoke softly, as she always did when speaking to children, and I was on the other side of the kitchen at the time. Whatever she said, I could tell Jacob was delighted by it. He’s normally a squirmy little guy, but for that conversation he sat transfixed, smiling.
Of course the sight reminded me of my own childhood. I have built a life on the sense of spiritual confidence that my grandmother imparted to me when I was young. “With Grammy on my side,” I have always thought, “who can be against me?” (The allusion is scriptural, of course, as will soon be made explicit.)
This is what I saw in Jacob’s face last Thanksgiving – a sudden and overwhelming realization that this woman was for him. The impression she made was sufficiently strong that three months later, when the time came for Jacob to write his farewell note, he knew just what words to choose.
*****
I will pretend that Jacob’s Spiderman notebook folds neatly inside the second book in this story, a very old, leather-bound book I found in a wooden chest in my grandmother’s garage during a visit I made to El Dorado about a month before she died. The book’s title page looked unlike most contemporary title pages in that it was filled with text, unfolding from top to bottom in ever-smaller fonts, the lines centered on the page. The largest words, in all caps, were “ACT, DECLARATION AND TESTIMONY …” giving the impression of a title. In fact, though, these words were just the beginning of an elaborate sentence that continued: “… for the whole of our covenanted Reformation, as attained to and established in Britain and Ireland; particularly betwixt the years 1638 and 1649, inclusive; as also against all the steps of deception from said reformation, whether in former or later times, since the overthrow of that glorious work, down to this present day.” At the foot of the page was this: “EDINBURGH, Printed in the Year MDCCLXXVII.” The book had been printed in 1777.
I was amazed by the book’s age and bemused by its language, but I was positively shocked to find it in my grandmother’s treasure-chest. I was shocked because the book was Presbyterian. It’s opening pages included a ringing damnation of John Wesley’s Methodists who, it asserted, “have over-run the whole kingdom propagating everywhere the doctrine of Arminianism, together with the most unaccountable licentious principles anent Christian and church communion ever known.”
Trusting that confession is good for the soul, I will confess to a certain prejudice against Presbyterians. While few still cling to the pre-modern doctrine of predestination (the doctrine which gave the movement rise), today’s Presbyterians still tend to emphasize the sovereignty of God and the absoluteness of God’s will. In the Presbyterian view of the world (I have always liked to say), life consists entirely of God saying, “jump!” and us mortals saying, “how high?” Presbyterians are quick to remind us that we never jump high enough, forcing us to acknowledge – if we are honest with ourselves – that we always fall back onto the ground of God’s grace.
Methodists, by contrast, have always liked to conjure a more enthusiastic and sympathetic God. I have always loved the story of the little boy who says to his mother, “Let’s play darts – I’ll throw and you say, ‘wonderful!’” Methodists acknowledge that we rarely hit the bull’s-eye in this life (I am reminded that in Hebrew the word most commonly used for “sin” means simply to “miss the mark”), but we like to think that God applauds our efforts nonetheless. We Methodists like to think that we can be confident of our eternal salvation.
I can’t tell you how unsettling it was for me to discover a Presbyterian book in my grandmother’s treasure chest. The book was inscribed by my grandmother’s mother and had clearly belonged to one of her ancestors. There was no reason for me to come to any other conclusion: my Methodist family tree springs in part from a Presbyterian root.
*****
The third book to tell you about is my grandmother’s Bible, as of course it would have to be in a nostalgic piece like this. It has come completely undone at the seams, and so all the other books in my world fit comfortably between its covers. In the midst of our January visit, my grandmother had asked me to read a passage from her Bible, directing me to the last verses from Isaiah’s fortieth chapter, and then saying, “You can remember these, can’t you?” I took it to be a request that the verses be read at her funeral, a request that I honored gladly:
The verses satisfied my Methodist spirit, suggesting a faith that faces down troubles with a supreme (and serene) confidence. As I read them at her funeral, though, it occurred to me that the verses would have satisfied my Presbyterian ancestors, too (whoever they are). Isaiah makes clear that the only reliable ground for such confidence is the “everlasting God, the creator of all the earth.”
My Grammy’s favorite passage connected nicely to my own, a passage seared into my consciousness from my reading it at funerals and graveside services in my fifteen years as a parish pastor. At the funeral I quoted them from memory:
The words, of course, are Paul’s, written to the early Christians in Rome.
As I prepared to close my eulogy, it occurred to me that my grandmother had assembled her family and friends for a final visit. Of course the art of a good visit includes knowing when to say good-bye.
I descended the church’s chancel steps, placed my hand on her coffin and stepped in to the conclusion of my eulogy:
*NOTE TO READER: Perhaps you will find words similar to these ringing down the generations in your family, too.
This is a tale of three books, the first being the spiral-bound Spiderman notebook that belongs to Jacob, my four year-old son. The night before I left town to go to my grandmother’s funeral, I grabbed the notebook and a pencil as Jacob climbed into his bed, and I asked him if he wanted to write a note to his great-grandmother, whom he has always called “Gigi.”
Jacob thought for just a minute, then motioned for me to bend over so he could whisper in my ear.
“I love you,” he said. “I miss you. I want to visit with you in heaven.”
Jacob giggled and sat up straight in his bed as I read his words back to him. Then, with a curious smile and a nod of his head, he said to me confidently, almost smugly, “You show her that. I think she will like what I wrote.”
Indeed his Gigi would have liked what Jacob wrote.
My grandmother, Marian Alice Sliker, was born in Howard, Kansas on September 18, 1909. Raised by devout Methodist parents, she thought in her teenage years of becoming a foreign missionary – a common thought among Christian women of her generation. Then one day it occurred to her that she could be a missionary right there in Kansas. In fact that is what she did with her life, dedicating herself to family and friends, neighbors and church, and a life of service to others.
Across the course of her life my grandmother proved especially devoted to the religious practice of “visitation.” For decades she served as one of her church’s parish visitors, making appointed rounds to see the sick and hospitalized and shut-in. By all accounts she was an extraordinarily good visitor, as comfortable praying for those who couldn’t speak as she was in gabbing it up with those who were starved for conversation.
My Grammy met Jacob in person only once – last Thanksgiving, three months before she died. Jacob was already four years old by then, but I had filled the years since his birth with many things (important things, I’m sure) and so had failed to bring Jacob from California for a visit.
On Thanksgiving Day my father brought my grandmother home from the convalescent home where she spent the last six months of her life. My mother prepared a turkey dinner and there in her kitchen Gigi met her youngest great-grandson. I don’t know exactly what my grandmother said to Jacob when she introduced herself – she spoke softly, as she always did when speaking to children, and I was on the other side of the kitchen at the time. Whatever she said, I could tell Jacob was delighted by it. He’s normally a squirmy little guy, but for that conversation he sat transfixed, smiling.
Of course the sight reminded me of my own childhood. I have built a life on the sense of spiritual confidence that my grandmother imparted to me when I was young. “With Grammy on my side,” I have always thought, “who can be against me?” (The allusion is scriptural, of course, as will soon be made explicit.)
This is what I saw in Jacob’s face last Thanksgiving – a sudden and overwhelming realization that this woman was for him. The impression she made was sufficiently strong that three months later, when the time came for Jacob to write his farewell note, he knew just what words to choose.
*****
I will pretend that Jacob’s Spiderman notebook folds neatly inside the second book in this story, a very old, leather-bound book I found in a wooden chest in my grandmother’s garage during a visit I made to El Dorado about a month before she died. The book’s title page looked unlike most contemporary title pages in that it was filled with text, unfolding from top to bottom in ever-smaller fonts, the lines centered on the page. The largest words, in all caps, were “ACT, DECLARATION AND TESTIMONY …” giving the impression of a title. In fact, though, these words were just the beginning of an elaborate sentence that continued: “… for the whole of our covenanted Reformation, as attained to and established in Britain and Ireland; particularly betwixt the years 1638 and 1649, inclusive; as also against all the steps of deception from said reformation, whether in former or later times, since the overthrow of that glorious work, down to this present day.” At the foot of the page was this: “EDINBURGH, Printed in the Year MDCCLXXVII.” The book had been printed in 1777.
I was amazed by the book’s age and bemused by its language, but I was positively shocked to find it in my grandmother’s treasure-chest. I was shocked because the book was Presbyterian. It’s opening pages included a ringing damnation of John Wesley’s Methodists who, it asserted, “have over-run the whole kingdom propagating everywhere the doctrine of Arminianism, together with the most unaccountable licentious principles anent Christian and church communion ever known.”
Trusting that confession is good for the soul, I will confess to a certain prejudice against Presbyterians. While few still cling to the pre-modern doctrine of predestination (the doctrine which gave the movement rise), today’s Presbyterians still tend to emphasize the sovereignty of God and the absoluteness of God’s will. In the Presbyterian view of the world (I have always liked to say), life consists entirely of God saying, “jump!” and us mortals saying, “how high?” Presbyterians are quick to remind us that we never jump high enough, forcing us to acknowledge – if we are honest with ourselves – that we always fall back onto the ground of God’s grace.
Methodists, by contrast, have always liked to conjure a more enthusiastic and sympathetic God. I have always loved the story of the little boy who says to his mother, “Let’s play darts – I’ll throw and you say, ‘wonderful!’” Methodists acknowledge that we rarely hit the bull’s-eye in this life (I am reminded that in Hebrew the word most commonly used for “sin” means simply to “miss the mark”), but we like to think that God applauds our efforts nonetheless. We Methodists like to think that we can be confident of our eternal salvation.
I can’t tell you how unsettling it was for me to discover a Presbyterian book in my grandmother’s treasure chest. The book was inscribed by my grandmother’s mother and had clearly belonged to one of her ancestors. There was no reason for me to come to any other conclusion: my Methodist family tree springs in part from a Presbyterian root.
*****
The third book to tell you about is my grandmother’s Bible, as of course it would have to be in a nostalgic piece like this. It has come completely undone at the seams, and so all the other books in my world fit comfortably between its covers. In the midst of our January visit, my grandmother had asked me to read a passage from her Bible, directing me to the last verses from Isaiah’s fortieth chapter, and then saying, “You can remember these, can’t you?” I took it to be a request that the verses be read at her funeral, a request that I honored gladly:
O Israel, how can you say the LORD does not see your troubles? How can you say God refuses to hear your case? Have you never heard or understood? Don't you know that the LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of all the earth? He never grows faint or weary. No one can measure the depths of his understanding. He gives power to those who are tired and worn out; he offers strength to the weak. Even youths will become exhausted, and young men will give up. But those who wait on the LORD will find new strength. They will fly high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint. (Isaiah 40: 27-30, New Living Translation)
The verses satisfied my Methodist spirit, suggesting a faith that faces down troubles with a supreme (and serene) confidence. As I read them at her funeral, though, it occurred to me that the verses would have satisfied my Presbyterian ancestors, too (whoever they are). Isaiah makes clear that the only reliable ground for such confidence is the “everlasting God, the creator of all the earth.”
My Grammy’s favorite passage connected nicely to my own, a passage seared into my consciousness from my reading it at funerals and graveside services in my fifteen years as a parish pastor. At the funeral I quoted them from memory:
For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:37-39, New Revised Standard Version)
The words, of course, are Paul’s, written to the early Christians in Rome.
As I prepared to close my eulogy, it occurred to me that my grandmother had assembled her family and friends for a final visit. Of course the art of a good visit includes knowing when to say good-bye.
I descended the church’s chancel steps, placed my hand on her coffin and stepped in to the conclusion of my eulogy:
There is a certain arc to the life of faith, an arc that eventually comes full-circle. And I can describe the shape of this arc in words that come ringing down the generations of this family.* When we are born God says “I love you.” When we go astray God says “I miss you.” When we hit the bull’s eye in life, God shouts “wonderful!” When we miss the mark God says, “Nothing can separate us … we always come back together.” And when we die? Why, then God comes and knocks on our door and pays us a visit. “Come, my friend,” God says. “Let us sit and talk for a good long little while. I would like to visit with you in heaven.”
*NOTE TO READER: Perhaps you will find words similar to these ringing down the generations in your family, too.
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