The low murmur of conversation wafted down the stairs upon the nose-crinkling smell of instant Folgers. “Daylight in the swamp!” could be the greeting as I stumbled my way up those wide, orange-carpeted steps to investigate the early morning alarm of low voices and the clink of spoons on Corelle mugs. I’d slowly blink the crusty basement air away to see Grandpa seated at the breakfast bar across from Mom or Auntie at the stove, his work-hardened hands curled around the coffee cup, blue coveralls rich with the heavy smell of diesel and oil (which still is, for me, the olfactory essence of Grandpa). My little mind wondered why anyone or anything would want to “roust, roust!” at this predawn hour, but I generally stopped thinking too hard about it and just settled in for some breakfast.

Grandpa was usually on his way to some project in the woods or at the fuel station shortly after I crept up the stairs, daylight burning and his feet itching to get going. Mom always said he was happiest when he has a trailer behind his truck, ready to haul equipment or tools to somewhere they’re needed. When he’d come home after dark with a hearty “Hello, hello!”, I could expect rich smells of supper cooking, and often a “Beelapa” as I climbed the narrow, curved staircase to Grandma’s bedroom — I think I liked those little cheek pinches.

The record player stereo system was a sophisticated radar navigation system in the eyes of a six-year-old, but when it wasn’t occupied by submariner dreaming, it could play old country tunes. Grandpa was always ready to tap a toe and clap his hands as he swayed and bopped across the room to the crooning Jimmie Rogers or Patsy Cline, extending his hand with a slight bow and a twinkle in his eye as he invited you to dance. I was never too good at keeping up with his foot tapping, arm swinging dance style, but he always smiled and just encouraged me again to relax and feel the music. Some of my most precious memories of Grandpa come from a cross-state journey with cowboy boots in hand just to spend a late summer evening at the casino convention center watching Grandpa scoot across the dance floor song after song after song, Grandma smiling and rocking along.

My younger mind always thought Grandpa and Mom and aunts and uncles had much too much to discuss – all they did was talk! But as I grew older I paid attention to the topics: Family. Work. God. Upright living. Iron sharpening iron.

My grandpa was always a strong man, independent and strong-willed. He believed strongly and did what it took to live up to those beliefs. One of my favorite stories of Grandpa when my Mom was a child was in response to a concerned church member’s remark on the Thompson clan growing to six members, without their financial coffers filled to overflowing:

“Have you considered planned parenting?”

Grandpa, full of wit and bristling at the underhanded insult, quipped,

“Yes. We plan to keep every one we get.”. 😆

Oh, the wonderful gift of a loving family, and a strong, Christ-fearing patriarch to guide it!

In the Christmas season, we reflect on God’s promise to come to Earth and save humanity, and the wonderful fulfillment of that promise through a little baby laid in a feed trough. And wouldn’t you know it: He’s made promises to come to Earth to save humanity again! And I’m unabashedly convinced that He’s true to His word, thanks in part to the spiritual lessons my grandfather lived.

So sleep tight, dear Grandpa Fred, until that eye-twinkling moment you wake to the trumpet call of Jesus bidding you come Home. Maybe I’ll be able to meet you with a better set of dancing feet on my body made new. 👣

In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.

I Corinthians 15:52