Pappa's Passing

My Grandfather passed away this past Thursday. This is my favorite picture of me and him. 

In many ways I find it difficult to grieve his passing appropriately. We were separated by thousands of miles. He didn't speak any English and I did not really speak much Finnish beyond the rudimentary basics. I saw him when we would visit, usually about every other year throughout my childhood. That was my family's big vacation: going to Finland, staying on their farm for three weeks. As I think on it, those unique Finnish trips, memories, people--can all be quite easy to compartmentalize as I try to get on with life over here. Yet, those memories and people remain a part of me. Pappa remains a part of me.  

Some might wonder how I could have a good relationship with someone who I did not see often and who did not share a language with me. It really was not difficult. If anything it made the interactions more precious, the translations from my mom more treasured. I had to rely heavily on Pappa's English speaking daughters to tell stories of his exploits, work ethic, physical strength, his kind heart--all of which had the effect of elevating him to a sort of living legend in my mind. When Pappa and I were together I would enjoy asking him about those old stories with my mom translating--to see his reaction and see what he would add.

Some of my best childhood memories are just being with him. Perhaps we could not talk much, but we were guys. Talking overrated. I remember sitting across from him on his wooden swing while he would smoke. Just sitting with him.  He would always recount a story of when I was probably 2 or 3, and I sat on his lap in his car holding on to the steering wheel--driving in the gravel driveway. When he would reach for the steering wheel to evade some obstacle, I would slap his hand away--forcing him to just put it in reverse. 

Other memories remain in my mind like scattered video clips throughout the years. I remember following him in the woods; trying to stretch my legs to step on the tracks he had left in the mossy turf. I remember walking in the snow one year and him showing me moose tracks. We were hunting! I remember one summer he would wake me up in the morning and we would go for rides in his Massey Ferguson tractor. We would pick up fallen trees; or he would visit the neighbors and show me off to them, introducing me as Tita's boy. I knew he was proud of me. He had no problem communicating that.

His "Good stuff speaks for itself" philosophy is one I try to emulate. His non-aggressive, kind bearing is another thing I will always admire. I remember walking with him one time and we were confronted by a angry neighbor for trespassing (when we clearly were not). The contrast in voices between the neighbor and Pappa was night and day. One loud, assertive, accusatory--the other soft, peaceable, sound. He was a hugger, and quite affectionate. As the story goes his father had never held him when he was young, only once when Pappa fell in the field. He had vowed to be different than his father, and that he was.

Jesus says in John 11:25, "I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." We understand viscerally that death is not the way it is supposed to be. Eternity is written on our hearts. Yet, Christ came that we might be brought near to God, free from these terrible effects of sin and death. That Pappa was able to communicate His faith and love for Christ in his old age is something I celebrate. I look forward to seeing Papa again soon.