Nothing, really, to add...

We held the memorial service for my father-in-law this weekend. It had been nearly two weeks since Grandpa had died, and I didn't expect to feel weepy. But, come on! Taps. A flag-draped coffin. A soldier holding that folded flag to his heart as he lovingly perfected the three corners. Then the soldier knelt in front of my husband's chair and said, "On behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful nation, I respectfully present this flag to you with gratitude for your father's service to our country." If you don't tear up after that, pack your bags and get yourself back to Russia. The youngest of Grandpa's three sons, Mark, wrote a touching eulogy, and asked me to read it at the service. Here's how Mark remembers his father.

Eulogy for Gilbert Joyce Johnson (by Mark Johnson)

Our grandfather, Peter Magnus Johnson, was just a boy when his father moved the family from Sweden to America. They settled on farming land near Big Rapids, Michigan, where many Swedes had moved prior to 1900. Eventually Peter Johnson also became a farmer, and raised his 5 children, including our Dad, on the land. His years growing up on that farm shaped the rest of Dad’s life.

I can’t say that Dad was a man of God, but I can confidently say he was used of God. And he was born at a point in time perfectly suited for the gifts God gave him. On the farm, they worked with their hands, used heavy tools to repair whatever was broken, and hunted the game that would sustain a large family through the Depression. Dad’s father taught him, by example, how to sacrifice and do whatever was needed to support a family, whether it was spreading gravel on the roads alongside WPA workers, or spending long winters making furniture crates in Grand Rapids to earn a few dollars. In the summer, the men in Dad’s family worked as migrant farm workers, camping in tents and picking cherries near Traverse City. I’m proud to say none of these experiences was demeaning for my Father. He did what was needed, used of God, to support his family.

Although he would later earn his GED, Dad finished his formal education at eighth grade after attending country school. Then he joined his father on the farm. Like many boys, he developed a lifelong love for new technology. But it wasn’t the computer that fascinated him, it was the combustion engine automobile, starting with the Model “A” and then the Model “T” Ford.

Dad was drafted into the Army during World War II, and all the skills he had acquired along the way were put to use for his country. He butchered meat as he had on the farm, for our soldiers fighting to secure freedom, both here and abroad. He reenlisted in the Air Force and used his strong hands not to repair farm equipment or automobiles, but the airplanes used in defense of our Allies. He served through the Korean War, a full 20 years in the military, to preserve democracy. He did what was needed, used of God, to support his country.

Dad’s father gave him a pair of barber shears when he left the farm to join the Army. He cut hair in the barracks to earn extra money to support his new bride and later his three sons. Dad gave me (Mark) a pair of barber shears when I left home for college. It seemed like a curious blessing at the time, but I cut hair in the dorms and earned extra money for college. Because of his example, it never felt demeaning.

Dad’s love of the automobile never wavered. He especially loved Dodge Darts and Plymouth Valiants. Whenever one of my friends bought either a Valiant or Dart from his collection, Dad was always there checking things under the hood when they stopped by the house, or helping them change the oil on a Saturday morning. He was generous with his time and talent for fixing things.

Dad taught me and my brothers, by example, to do what was needed, to be used of God, to support ourselves, our friends and our families. He was at one time a butcher, a barber, and when he worked at Marie Callender’s, even a baker…he was never a candlestick maker. He was a simple man, a man born for his time in history, a man born as each of us is, to be used by God, for His glory. We love Dad and we’ll miss him.

Just a Suggestion...

Preparing for Grandpa's funeral has put me in a pensive state.

As my girls were growing up, we had the obligatory critter parade: hamsters, rats, mice, birds, fish, dogs and cats. Except for the dog (a 100-pound Rhodesian Ridgeback) and the cat, who had the decency to wander off someplace to die, as each animal met it's demise, it was lovingly placed in an empty Velveeta box. The box was carried to a special spot beneath the elephant bush, a hole was dug with Mom's strongest serving spoon, and we would have a small funeral. After 25 years in that house, you can only guess the amount of nachos we had to eat to accommodate the pet population. But it was simple, and a nice tradition.

Which brings me to a bit of free advice:

Don't die.

Or if you insist upon dying, do it in such a way that you leave no physical remains. For example, you might choose to lower yourself slowly into a vat of molten steel a la T2. Or you might hire a large, hungry carnivore (i.e. shark or grizzly) which will finish you off in one sitting. Alien abduction might work, but apparently they insist on bringing folks back, which sort of defeats the purpose.

My point is this: unless you planned way ahead and set up the whole "pre-need funeral arrangements" thing back in the mid 1970s, you won't be able to afford to have yourself buried. We're talking like eight grand for a simple graveside service...pecan wood casket et al. If you planned to leave anything to the kids, forget it. You'll be reposing in their inheritance for the rest of whatever. I'm not saying it's a racket; I don't like to call anything a racket. But it's a really really really expensive um... industry. So you might want to start dropping your spare dimes into a piggy bank to pay for your own pecan wood casket.

Unless you have a Costco-sized Velveeta box and a really sturdy spoon. In which case, you're welcome to join the Johnson Critters Memorial Park. We'll even add a nice Popsicle stick head stone; no extra charge.

Gone but not forgotten...

Wednesday August 1, 2007

Last night at 11:00 pm I got the call we'd been expecting for several days. My father-in-law, Gilbert, had passed away quietly. Now the busyness begins: close out the apartment, store the furniture, pay the final bills, deal with the finances, the lawyers and the morticians. But in a few weeks, the finality will become real, and we'll begin to realize we'll never spend another moment with him. He had always been the crabby, critical old goat who sat at my dinner table a few times a year and belittled me for my faith. It was hurtful, and I admit many times I chose to avoid spending time with him, instead of pouring God's love on him. I have to ask God's forgiveness for that.

In the past two months as I have thrown myself into this, Gilbert's final journey, I have come to see him as I never had before. I now know he was a frightened, lonely old guy who was suddenly facing the end of his life, and didn't know how to feel about it. He continued to be completely unwilling to hear the Gospel message, regardless of how many times we all tried to explain it to him. He insisted that he had never been a bad person (true) and therefore deserved any reward the next life might offer (untrue).

So now he's stepped into eternity. No one knows where he is today. We do know we have done our part, telling him the message, showing him our own faith, being faithful to the God we serve. We also know we are not the ultimate Judge of man's soul -- thank heaven for that! -- and that our God is a fair and loving Father. But in that fairness and love, He has freely offered the way to an eternity in glory. If Gilbert denied that fairness and refused that love, he today stands separated from his own Father. This side of eternity, none of us will know where Gilbert's journey has taken him. We can only prepare our own souls, and pray for the souls of those yet undecided.

May heaven be a sweeter place because your name and mine are written in the Book of Life. I want to see you there.