A Tribute to Grandpa

NOTE: This is a week or so later getting up on the blog than I planned.  And really, I'm only posting it for my own sake.  This blog is sort of my digital journal, a filing cabinet of records, a scrapbook of memories... so I'm posting the tribute I shared at my grandfather's memorial service two weeks ago today before I misplace it  (photos added later).

On behalf of the Whiteford family, we want to thank you for coming this morning.  Your presence is a great source of love and encouragement to us. My name is Cydil vanOrman Waggoner.  I am Lawrence and Marguerite's eldest grandchild...

About a month ago, I decided to solve the dilemma of filling the empty space on the wall over my bed by enlarging a photograph I took a few years ago.  It's a silhouette of three, strong mature trees, symmetrically placed in the frame -- left, center, right.   While I appreciate its graphic qualities, that's not why I chose to enlarge it.

It was actually taken on the family farm one foggy autumn morning.  It's Grandpa and Grandma's front yard.  Through the mist you can see the faint outline of the mailbox before the fields beyond disappear. 

Living far from home these days, I appreciate this virtual window to my roots.  Out my actual window on the opposite wall I can see red tiled roofs and fig trees... and a billboard for an international cell phone carrier.  

If I look I at this image though, I feel like I'm looking out the window of a more familiar home.  I look at this image and memories of Whiteford-Rewalt reunion picnics under these trees flood my mind.  I expect a pick-up truck to roll by and I remember the feel of walking on this feathery grass with the occasional bumpy mole tunnel under my feet. 

Home -- that's what Grandpa (and Grandma) represent to me.  Coming into their presence was to be known and welcomed by someone who loved you -- the feeling you get when coming home.  And I still get that feeling every time I pull into the driveway of the farm.  Though they haven't lived there for more than a decade, the house and buildings remain a part of our family life and Grandpa's presence is so indelibly linked to every inch that you half expect to see him step out of the shed in his customary overalls and seed corn hat.  It's one of the few places in my life that hasn't changed, where our presence is welcome, where we are not trespassers, where the memories spring up like the seed corn and soy beans that grow around it.

I grew up just a couple of miles from Grandpa and Grandma's, so their home was almost as familiar as my own. The central station of farm operations, we ate many a meal around their kitchen table.  It was a great place to ride our bikes, to take water breaks from walking beans or mowing the cemetery, or to meet up with teams of de-tasselers.  More significantly it was the site of many a family gathering, of dying easter eggs, opening Christmas gifts, and enjoying summer reunion picnics. 

Grandpa taught us how to shuck an ear of sweet corn and how to pray in King James English.  He schooled us on the histories and genealogies of our family and the connections to all the families around 'the neighborhood.'

But he also taught us about living a life of contentment and gratitude.  It was no secret that his early life had its share of hard times.  But for Grandpa, it was more important to be holy than happy -- not in the legalistic sense -- but that he knew there were more important things to be pursued than in acquiring possessions or aspiring to the world's approval.

Simplicity, hard work, fairness, honesty, generosity, and devotion to family and God were the pillars of his life. These principles governed his decisions and defined his character as he sought to follow the Lord.  Grandpa rarely expressed worry, just an abiding trust in God's faithfulness and provision.  These are the gifts he has given us through the example of his life that are far more valuable than any material goods. 

When I think of that young man, growing up through the Depression on a small sandy farm in central Illinois, caring for his younger sister by assuming the responsibilities of the farm after they were orphaned as teenagers.... He probably could never have imagined how his family would multiply one day -- a legacy that literally extends around the globe.

Now his time on earth is done and we get to celebrate that he has reached his eternal home.  I know his prayer would be that every single person in this room can join him there. I say this not only because of his love for you, but several years ago I actually got to visit the place where he and Grandma, someday, will be buried.  Much to my surprise, the tombstone had already been purchased and inscribed, short of the last dates. 

Included on their stone he had chosen to inscribe as his 'last words', you might say --the words of Jesus, as permanent, public testimony pointing all to heaven ... "I am the resurrection and the life, he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live..."