Volume 6, October 6, 2004

File this one under ‘Never Give Up The Ship.’

I have two incidents I go back to when I think I’m losing faith. Maybe I’m not losing it, I might be weary, is all, maybe my faith got a little tired out. I’m talking about those fleeting seconds when we wonder if God really exists. When we think, Is Christianity really just another religion? Is there really life after death?

A fleeting second might say to me, Hey, maybe God isn’t who you think He is. Hey, this life-after-death stuff is the biggest cosmic farce to hit humanity. Hey, who are you to think you’ve got the Truth?

When those moments come, I remember two things: a hunk of lapis lazuli I wear around my neck, and my Grandpa. I wrote about the lapis in a letter to my accountant; it’s a great story, and I’ll put it in newsletter form sometime. It’s the Grandpa story, however, that never fails to astound me. It’s the ace up my sleeve when times of doubt come, and the lapis story doesn’t work.

I became a Christian at 16. I spent the first ten years picking up not only the love of God, but the baggage that often goes with religion. I’ve spent the last many years dropping off the baggage here and there. I have great hope that by the time I die, I may be baggage free. You never know. Anyway, one piece of baggage I had back then was the smoking and drinking suitcase: any smoker may as well wave a flag saying “Save me”, and if they drank—they’re in a nosedive to hell for sure. I’ve since learned that: A., Smoking isn’t different from food addiction, and B., Jesus didn’t turn the water into grape juice. The Strong’s Concordance says he turned it into, well, wine.

Grandpa smoked and drank. I do not recall seeing him without a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. Unfortunately, I was more interested in saving Grandpa than I was in Grandpa. (That’s another piece of baggage. I’ve learned since then that I’m not called to save, only Jesus can do that: I’m only supposed to love. And love takes care of things, no matter what my aim is. Where was I?) I’d pray for him, which is probably the best I can and will ever do for someone, and I’d visit now and then. If I wasn’t so bent on seeing him saved, I might have got to know him a little better. You live, and you learn.

Well, Grandpa had a curious affinity for Billy Graham. Grandpa, who didn’t darken church doorways, would always clear the TV viewing schedule for old Billy. Mom and I would pray, then, that God would use Billy to talk to Grandpa. (Again, one of the better things I’ve done.) Years went by. I got married, had kids, visited Grandpa and Grandma occasionally. Not enough. They loved to watch Jeopardy. Grandpa liked to do jigsaw puzzles. Jack and I would join him at that card table and try to manage one or two fittings in the 1000 piece puzzles. Once I said, ‘Grandpa, how you can do this? It would drive me crazy. You got about a million pieces here and they’re all blue.’ Grandpa was a quiet man who didn’t talk much. All he said was, ‘Never give up the ship.’

Several years ago, Grandpa got sick. One thing led to another, and he was soon on his deathbed at the local Hospice. My dad called and said I’d better get down there.

I drove to the hospice, parked, and entered the building. The sign on the room door said “Alfred Harmon.” My Grandpa’s room, no question about it. So I walked in, and there I saw many members of my family, aunts and uncles, cousins, my mom and dad. I saw my Grandpa on the bed, and I saw he wasn’t dead yet, and everything should have been normal. Except it wasn’t. I stood there, blankly, knowing I had the wrong room. The sign said “Alfred Harmon”, but I knew better. Something was so completely different, completely changed, something I knew to be so irrefutable that after staring at my dad, I turned around and headed for the door, looking for the room with my Grandpa.

Dad called me back. “ Tracy, where are going?”

I turned around, stared at him, and these were the only two words I could say: “What happened?”

The craziest thing of all is that Dad knew exactly what I was talking about. With the most beautiful smile on his face, he said, “Go ask your Uncle Tom.”

Much mystified, like I was in a trance, I hunted down Uncle Tom. I don’t even remember what I said. Probably, “What happened?”

Uncle Tom, who had the same beautiful look as my dad, explained. “A few nights ago, I was talking to your Grandpa. I said, ‘Dad. You don’t have much longer to live. Have you thought about God? Have you thought about giving your life to Him?’ Grandpa said, ‘It’s too late. What can I do to make up for my past? I can’t go to church. I can’t do nothing.’ And I thought about it. Then I said, ‘Dad…let me tell you about a thief on a cross. He had no time left. He had nothing he could to do make up for any part of his life. The only thing he could do was believe in Jesus.’ And Grandpa was astonished. He looked at me and said, ‘That’s all I have to do? Believe?’ And I said, ‘That’s all.’

Grandpa thought it over. And he said, “Well…I believe.”

He didn’t have much time left after that. Uncle Tom woke up at his side, about 3 in the morning, and saw that Grandpa was talking. He came close and said, “Dad? Are you okay? What are you doing?” And Grandpa said, “Me and God, we’re just talking.”

I have with me this incident, when times of doubt come. It wasn’t so much that Grandpa believed in Jesus at the end, that which we had prayed for; it was the actual phenomenon of a transformation so complete, I knew about it the second I walked into the room. The old familiar presence that had been my Grandpa was so completely changed it had me looking for him elsewhere. That’s what I’m talking about—that moment of walking in the door. Dad knew what I was talking about.

Grandpa and Grandma didn’t have much in this life. When I was 10, my grandparents gave me a ring that belonged to Grandpa’s Grandmother. It has a ruby in it, my birthstone. If it’s chipped and worn, likely from my childhood, it’s precious to me. I have another inheritance, words from Grandpa that I take out now and again like an heirloom: Never Give Up The Ship. Five words that are precious to me.

Grandpa’s final gift to me was the moment I walked into that hospice room. I take it out now and again, when times of doubt come. You see, I knew something was different in an unseen realm. Knew it without anyone telling me. Knew, then, in that instant, that the unseen realm was real.

Grandpa’s transformation still transforms doubt into faith, now and again.

Groot—out.

—Tracy Groot

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