Remembering Grandpa

Wednesday night I was out with some of my buddies when my brother called. I decided to let it go to voicemail, and I would just call him back later. When he called the second time, I knew it was important. I answered the phone, and a shaky voice on the other end of the line explained to me that Grandpa had died just minutes after getting home from the hospital (he had just gotten over a bad case of pneumonia). Rebekah and I raced over to my parents' house (my grandparents live with them) to help out however we could. Grandpa's body was still on the floor where the EMT's had furiously tried to save his life. It was a strange evening.

Last night, Bekah cooked for the family, and after dinner we spent many hours remembering Frank Leganger Richardson; beloved grandfathter, father, and husband. My mom has asked all of us grandkids to write a paragraph or two about him for the funeral on Monday, so I'll have a go with mine here.

There are three things that come to mind when I think about my grandpa: He was skillful, strong, and godly.

Whether he was working in the garden, or singing a tenor solo from Handel's Messiah, he was skillful. He worked hard at everything he did, and settled for nothing less than excellence. My dad once told me that Grandpa used to sing "Comfort Ye, My People," at about half the speed it should be sung, and would seem to sing forever on just one breath, and perfectly on pitch. I never saw my grandpa do anything half-heartedly; he was a skillful man who took pride in all his work, for he knew that his work in the Lord was not in vain.

If you've ever shaken hands with my grandpa (even if it was only last week), you know he was strong. My wife still has bruises on her back from the way he always slapped it when he hugged her. If he ever felt weak or in pain, none of us ever heard about it. I can remember a few short years ago when we visited him in New Jersey, he refused to let any of us carry our luggage up the stairs to the bedrooms. He picked up as many parcels as he could muster, and bolted up the stairs, making sure he never waivered. Was it difficult for him? I imagine so, but he wanted us to know that he was strong.

I believe you could examine every aspect of my grandpa's life, and you would come up with the same conclusion: he was above reproach. He faithfully loved his wife in word and deed, as well as his family. When he prayed over a simple meal, every word was intentional, every word mattered. They were the kind of prayers that made you want to shout, "Amen!" Everything he did in life was done to the glory of God. Grandpa is indeed one of the heroes of the faith, one in the great cloud of witnesses.

I saw his corruptible body on Wednesday night, and I'm so happy that I will see him again on the last day, when the perishable will have put on the imperishable, and the mortal will have put on immortality. Then will come about the saying that is written, "Death is swallowed up in victory. O Death, where is your victory? O Death, where is your sting?"