I'm on a blog binge...I'm sorry. To top it all off, I'm in a mood tonight and missing my grandfather. For whatever reason, I never felt like anyone loved me as much as my Opa did.His birthday was last Friday (April 10th). He died a little over four years ago just before turning 80. I guess that's a pretty good age when you consider how much he drank, smoked, and all he'd been through during the war.
I was always his favorite and everyone in the family will tell you that. Both of my grandparents wanted lots of kids but were only able to have my dad and so we (the grandkids) became their life. Oma always wanted little girls and so while I know she loves unconditionally and never showed favoritism, I know in Brittney and Heidi she got what she'd always wanted. For Opa, I was the youngest and the only boy; the only one to carry on the family name. And since I'm thinking about him tonight and I've already written one about Oma, I figured I'd write one on him too.
Opa had the bluest eyes behind his thick glasses. Always wore his hair slicked back and always walked a little off due to breaking his back earlier in life. And even though he lived in the US for 50+ years, he always kept his thick accent to the point where most of my friends had a hard time understanding him until they got use to it. When he fell off that ladder and went to the hospital, the doctor couldn't believe Opa had gotten back up and drove himself to the hospital with a broken back. That was Opa though - never showed pain until really late in life, but would cry at the drop of a hat if something happened within the family. I was thankful he wasn't around for my divorce or I can't imagine he would have lived through it.
Opa didn't have a great home growing up. During the hard times when food was rationed in Germany, Oma's parents would pick up their food weekly and ration it out for the rest of the week. Opa's simply gorged the first couple days and went without the rest of the week. They didn't really celebrate Christmas at his house and the first Christmas he spent with Oma's family, he actually laughed when they started singing a hymn on Christmas Eve. He just didn't understand. He'd never been around it.
He use to tell stories of ways him and his friends entertained themselves (having no money). They once found a baby eagle that had fallen out of its nest, so they decided to keep it. They didn't have anything to feed it, so they would sneak into the neighbor's yard at night, steal his baby bunnies and feed it to the eagle. Eventually when the eagle got bigger and wasn't injured anymore, they let it go.
With the houses built right on the street and all the times it snowed, they would climb on the roof and wait. One would watch the street and then signal when someone was walking by beneath them - the others would roll huge snowballs down the roof and onto the unsuspecting victims.
He remained a prankster his whole life. In the army, when the "not so smart" people would come by and count the soldiers, they did it by counting feet. So Opa and his buddies would each pick up opposite feet to throw off the guys counting. When Opa worked as a chef in the Pioneer, he had two identical lighters that he kept, one in each pocket. Then he'd bet the other guys in the kitchen that they couldn't guess which pocket he had the lighter. When they guessed the left pocket, he'd pull the other one out of his right pocket. I can still hear him laughing at how they never figured it out.
He got so bad that whenever he was actually sick, Oma would have to call in for him because nobody believed him anymore. And then since Opa worked in the kitchen and Oma in the front in the office, he would come in on other days all depressed and tell everyone that Oma had packed her bags and left him and moved off with another man. The other employees would be sitting there consoling and feeling sorry for him, not knowing that Oma was sitting in the office on the other side of the restaurant.
I only made Opa cry once and I swore I would never do it again. I was 15 and staying after school for some reason and he was suppose to be picking me up. Since I knew he was always early, I specifically told him over and over again not to pick me up before a certain time. Of course he was early anyway and I got so mad. I never said anything to him, but my body language was awful. When dad told me how upset he was, he made me call and apologize. When I got on the phone, Opa started crying and of course I followed suit. Can you imagine that? A 15 year old making his granfather cry? I swore I would never hurt his feelings again.
I spent almost every weekend with Oma and Opa growing up (or it felt like it). Besides cutting their grass as I got older, I never had to do anything. They always fixed all the meals and never let me help. Oma and I would play german board games like "Mensch Aerger Dich Nicht" (kinda like Sorry), and Opa and I would stay up late watching wrestling. When I was about 5 maybe (?), maybe I'd had a string of bad dreams or something, Opa started sleeping in the room with me. I can still remember him laying down and letting everything get quiet before ripping one that echoed around the room, then laughing at himself. "That was George," he'd say. Five minutes later when he ripped another one; "That was Fred...he was looking for George." And then he'd laugh again.
As I got older I stopped spending the weekends over there, but I always saw them at least once a week. I cut their grass almost until he died when Dad decided to hire a lawn service to do it. Opa would always sit outside with his German Shepherds, drink a beer, and watch me cut the grass. I think he did it more just to be outside with me than to supervise the work.
About two years before he died he started spending more and more time in the hospital. About a year before he died, he needed open-heart surgery. Dad was worried because Opa had never been very spiritual and only mentioned the name of God when he was taking it in vain. Dad had written them both a letter some years before and while I saw a noticable difference in Oma, Opa didn't change. So with the surgery coming up, Dad was worried that Opa might not live through it (the doctors weren't sure either). He sat down with me and told me he needed me to talk to Opa about Christ. He'd always spoken to Opa in german but he didn't have the vocabulary to talk about faith, and talking in english was too weird.
That night - the night before his surgery - I went to the hospital and told Opa I wanted to talk to him about God. I think only Opa's fear of dying opened him up that night to even talk about it. I don't remember exactly what I said, but Opa and I prayed together for him to accept Christ. As soon as we were done praying, he said, "Ok, go home now. It's late." That always weighed on me and weighed on me more when I realized that though I told Opa he needed to ask Jesus into his heart, I never told him he had to BELIEVE that Jesus was the Son of God who had died for his sins. Until the night Opa died, I worried I had failed in that.
One week before he died, I was spending the night over at their house to give Oma some much needed sleep and help Opa throughout the night when he needed it. I was laying on the floor unable to sleep, afraid I would miss him if he called. Suddenly I looked up and he was peeking around the doorframe of his room to see if I was awake. When he saw that I was, he laughed. He asked if the floor was comfortable and then told me to come sleep on the bed since it was big enough. I got up and went to sleep in his room for the rest of the night - in the same bed I'd slept as a kid whenever I spent the night over there. Maybe Opa was thinking about that too, because he laughed for a while and he wouldn't ever tell me why.
The day he died I'd spent the whole day in south Alabama with work, but it was my turn to spend the night with him again so Oma could sleep. When I walked in, it was the first time I'd seen him in the hospice bed and it freaked me out a bit. Oma told me he'd been calling for me all day. Mom and Dad had already been by and then He started calling for Brittney, then Heidi, then me. They'd all been by to see him and I was late getting over there. By the time I got over there though he wasn't talking much.
As soon as I got there, Oma went to bed and I sat in a chair by his bed. He told me to lay down on the couch, but I told him I wasn't tired and I'd just sit for a while. Because of the year before, I tried to talk to him again about God.
"You know the best thing about heaven, Opa?"
"No, Brock, don't tell me."
I think he was still afraid of dying even though he'd said he was ready to go numerous times. I never got to tell him that the best thing about Heaven was that I would see him again. He layed there in pain because of his back and I helped him roll from one side to the other over and over again trying to get comfortable. We did this for the next hour or so, putting pillows behind his back. He asked for more oxygen (he had a tube) and more pain medicine. I gave him more of both, but he kept asking for more and eventually I told him I couldn't give him anymore.
I sat there watching his face struggle with the pain and knew this couldn't go on all night. I glanced at my watch and it was only 10:30, and so not knowing what else to do I prayed. I asked God that if Opa's heart wasn't right with him, to give me just one more day. Just one more day and I promised I would spend every minute by his side until he understood the Love of God. But I also prayed that if Opa was already going to Heaven, that God just take him now because I couldn't stand to watch him suffer like he was. Ten minutes later, Opa fell asleep and five minutes after that he stopped breathing. I've never regretted a prayer so much in all my life as I did in that moment. And every time I think back to that night, I feel the need to purge myself, even though I know it's what Opa wanted and that God was ready to take him.
More than anything, I miss him looking at me and I miss him laughing. A couple years ago I found an old answering machine I'd used in Auburn and it had the only message on it Opa had ever left me. He simply said my name, laughed, and hung up the phone. It's not much, but I can't bear to throw it away and occasionally, I'll plug it in and listen to it again.
I was always his favorite and everyone in the family will tell you that. Both of my grandparents wanted lots of kids but were only able to have my dad and so we (the grandkids) became their life. Oma always wanted little girls and so while I know she loves unconditionally and never showed favoritism, I know in Brittney and Heidi she got what she'd always wanted. For Opa, I was the youngest and the only boy; the only one to carry on the family name. And since I'm thinking about him tonight and I've already written one about Oma, I figured I'd write one on him too.
Opa had the bluest eyes behind his thick glasses. Always wore his hair slicked back and always walked a little off due to breaking his back earlier in life. And even though he lived in the US for 50+ years, he always kept his thick accent to the point where most of my friends had a hard time understanding him until they got use to it. When he fell off that ladder and went to the hospital, the doctor couldn't believe Opa had gotten back up and drove himself to the hospital with a broken back. That was Opa though - never showed pain until really late in life, but would cry at the drop of a hat if something happened within the family. I was thankful he wasn't around for my divorce or I can't imagine he would have lived through it.
Opa didn't have a great home growing up. During the hard times when food was rationed in Germany, Oma's parents would pick up their food weekly and ration it out for the rest of the week. Opa's simply gorged the first couple days and went without the rest of the week. They didn't really celebrate Christmas at his house and the first Christmas he spent with Oma's family, he actually laughed when they started singing a hymn on Christmas Eve. He just didn't understand. He'd never been around it.
He use to tell stories of ways him and his friends entertained themselves (having no money). They once found a baby eagle that had fallen out of its nest, so they decided to keep it. They didn't have anything to feed it, so they would sneak into the neighbor's yard at night, steal his baby bunnies and feed it to the eagle. Eventually when the eagle got bigger and wasn't injured anymore, they let it go.
With the houses built right on the street and all the times it snowed, they would climb on the roof and wait. One would watch the street and then signal when someone was walking by beneath them - the others would roll huge snowballs down the roof and onto the unsuspecting victims.
He remained a prankster his whole life. In the army, when the "not so smart" people would come by and count the soldiers, they did it by counting feet. So Opa and his buddies would each pick up opposite feet to throw off the guys counting. When Opa worked as a chef in the Pioneer, he had two identical lighters that he kept, one in each pocket. Then he'd bet the other guys in the kitchen that they couldn't guess which pocket he had the lighter. When they guessed the left pocket, he'd pull the other one out of his right pocket. I can still hear him laughing at how they never figured it out.
He got so bad that whenever he was actually sick, Oma would have to call in for him because nobody believed him anymore. And then since Opa worked in the kitchen and Oma in the front in the office, he would come in on other days all depressed and tell everyone that Oma had packed her bags and left him and moved off with another man. The other employees would be sitting there consoling and feeling sorry for him, not knowing that Oma was sitting in the office on the other side of the restaurant.
I only made Opa cry once and I swore I would never do it again. I was 15 and staying after school for some reason and he was suppose to be picking me up. Since I knew he was always early, I specifically told him over and over again not to pick me up before a certain time. Of course he was early anyway and I got so mad. I never said anything to him, but my body language was awful. When dad told me how upset he was, he made me call and apologize. When I got on the phone, Opa started crying and of course I followed suit. Can you imagine that? A 15 year old making his granfather cry? I swore I would never hurt his feelings again.
I spent almost every weekend with Oma and Opa growing up (or it felt like it). Besides cutting their grass as I got older, I never had to do anything. They always fixed all the meals and never let me help. Oma and I would play german board games like "Mensch Aerger Dich Nicht" (kinda like Sorry), and Opa and I would stay up late watching wrestling. When I was about 5 maybe (?), maybe I'd had a string of bad dreams or something, Opa started sleeping in the room with me. I can still remember him laying down and letting everything get quiet before ripping one that echoed around the room, then laughing at himself. "That was George," he'd say. Five minutes later when he ripped another one; "That was Fred...he was looking for George." And then he'd laugh again.
As I got older I stopped spending the weekends over there, but I always saw them at least once a week. I cut their grass almost until he died when Dad decided to hire a lawn service to do it. Opa would always sit outside with his German Shepherds, drink a beer, and watch me cut the grass. I think he did it more just to be outside with me than to supervise the work.
About two years before he died he started spending more and more time in the hospital. About a year before he died, he needed open-heart surgery. Dad was worried because Opa had never been very spiritual and only mentioned the name of God when he was taking it in vain. Dad had written them both a letter some years before and while I saw a noticable difference in Oma, Opa didn't change. So with the surgery coming up, Dad was worried that Opa might not live through it (the doctors weren't sure either). He sat down with me and told me he needed me to talk to Opa about Christ. He'd always spoken to Opa in german but he didn't have the vocabulary to talk about faith, and talking in english was too weird.
That night - the night before his surgery - I went to the hospital and told Opa I wanted to talk to him about God. I think only Opa's fear of dying opened him up that night to even talk about it. I don't remember exactly what I said, but Opa and I prayed together for him to accept Christ. As soon as we were done praying, he said, "Ok, go home now. It's late." That always weighed on me and weighed on me more when I realized that though I told Opa he needed to ask Jesus into his heart, I never told him he had to BELIEVE that Jesus was the Son of God who had died for his sins. Until the night Opa died, I worried I had failed in that.
One week before he died, I was spending the night over at their house to give Oma some much needed sleep and help Opa throughout the night when he needed it. I was laying on the floor unable to sleep, afraid I would miss him if he called. Suddenly I looked up and he was peeking around the doorframe of his room to see if I was awake. When he saw that I was, he laughed. He asked if the floor was comfortable and then told me to come sleep on the bed since it was big enough. I got up and went to sleep in his room for the rest of the night - in the same bed I'd slept as a kid whenever I spent the night over there. Maybe Opa was thinking about that too, because he laughed for a while and he wouldn't ever tell me why.
The day he died I'd spent the whole day in south Alabama with work, but it was my turn to spend the night with him again so Oma could sleep. When I walked in, it was the first time I'd seen him in the hospice bed and it freaked me out a bit. Oma told me he'd been calling for me all day. Mom and Dad had already been by and then He started calling for Brittney, then Heidi, then me. They'd all been by to see him and I was late getting over there. By the time I got over there though he wasn't talking much.
As soon as I got there, Oma went to bed and I sat in a chair by his bed. He told me to lay down on the couch, but I told him I wasn't tired and I'd just sit for a while. Because of the year before, I tried to talk to him again about God.
"You know the best thing about heaven, Opa?"
"No, Brock, don't tell me."
I think he was still afraid of dying even though he'd said he was ready to go numerous times. I never got to tell him that the best thing about Heaven was that I would see him again. He layed there in pain because of his back and I helped him roll from one side to the other over and over again trying to get comfortable. We did this for the next hour or so, putting pillows behind his back. He asked for more oxygen (he had a tube) and more pain medicine. I gave him more of both, but he kept asking for more and eventually I told him I couldn't give him anymore.
I sat there watching his face struggle with the pain and knew this couldn't go on all night. I glanced at my watch and it was only 10:30, and so not knowing what else to do I prayed. I asked God that if Opa's heart wasn't right with him, to give me just one more day. Just one more day and I promised I would spend every minute by his side until he understood the Love of God. But I also prayed that if Opa was already going to Heaven, that God just take him now because I couldn't stand to watch him suffer like he was. Ten minutes later, Opa fell asleep and five minutes after that he stopped breathing. I've never regretted a prayer so much in all my life as I did in that moment. And every time I think back to that night, I feel the need to purge myself, even though I know it's what Opa wanted and that God was ready to take him.
More than anything, I miss him looking at me and I miss him laughing. A couple years ago I found an old answering machine I'd used in Auburn and it had the only message on it Opa had ever left me. He simply said my name, laughed, and hung up the phone. It's not much, but I can't bear to throw it away and occasionally, I'll plug it in and listen to it again.
1 comment:
Thanks for honoring your Grandfather.
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