“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.
Author: Brynne Adkins
Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: I’m Brynne! I am a graduate of Wittenberg University, and I work as the Director of Marketing at my local Chamber of Commerce. I’m recently married to my husband Nick. We currently spend a lot of our time tearing down wallpaper in our new home, drinking wine, attending just about every social event/fundraiser/pancake breakfast our community has to offer, and rejoicing that wedding planning is a thing of the past. I’m a Frenchie lover- no, I don’t have one, but if you can talk my husband into it, I’ll reward you with cookies (they’ll likely be frozen- I don’t cook). I love kids- but the kind you can give back to their parents when you’re done with them (one day…). I love my family- especially my grandparents- they’re such a light in the world. I like pretending I’m a Broadway star once a year in my community’s summer musical. And I love Jesus- that guy is everything.
Link to social media or website: http://asincerespirit.blogspot.com/
