To my granddaughter, on professing her faith

Your great-grandpa wasn't sure where he was yesterday, but, as you know, that's not unusual. For some reason, he was expecting a trip to the cemetery, brought it up several times: "Is that the way they do it now, before they go to the cemetery?" We tried to question him about it, but he wasn't sure why he was saying it. The cemetery just stuck in his head for reasons he didn't understand.

First Church did the chapel yesterday afternoon; and, in their truly blessed fashion, they rounded up a whole squadron of little kids for a bell-choir, then stood them all up front, wiggling those little bells on cue. A goodly percentage of residents wouldn't have recognized what was going on if there'd been a chorus of hippos up front; but to those who could see and still discern, there's no greater miracle for the senses than little tykes praising Jesus. Those tots with the bells were the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

There wasn't a chair for me beside your great-grandpa, so I sat against the wall next to a woman whose daughter-in-law played a piano duet with her granddaughter. Four generations of that great-grandma's family sat there so close I could have touched each one of them--four generations. Just think of it. One of them, that great-grandma's son, is a resident. Alzheimers. He's way too young.

Great-grandma came for him, and because it was her church making music. Her daughter-in-law is a wonderful pianist who lights things up the way my mother used to, giving play to every last note on the keyboard. Those old folks loved it. The pianist's son was there sitting beside his father, the resident, and his daughter, the one who played the duet, sat beside him, a sweetheart with a thin braid of her long blonde hair strung around her head like a tiara. 

The place was filled to the brim with song. With all those First Church guests at the chapel, the singing (they only sing the oldies because lots of residents no longer read the words), the singing was heavenly. 

That woman?--the one who watched her daughter-in-law play a piano duet with her granddaughter, the little blonde with the tiara?--she shooed me over to a man who was once my friend and colleague, a man so stricken with Alzheimer's that he barely lifted his head. "Go talk to him," she said, pointing her finger at me, then him. "I told him you were here. Just go now and say hello."

I wish it were easier for me to do things like that. I've done it before, and it hasn't gone well. But I listened--I went over and sat there for a minute beside my old friend, and it didn't go well this time either. No matter. She was right to make me try. Sometimes life is like that.

The sermon was great. Most of the audience doesn't really tie in to what you're saying; but the preacher--he's a teacher--was wonderful. He brought his own darling kids along, then pulled them up front with some props, his little boy armed with a hammer and saw. "You know how to use those things?" his dad asked him (it was part of the sermon). The little guy shook his head as if he'd be happier off stage. It was a hoot.

When it was over, we wheeled your great-grandpa down to his end of the building for a chocolate chip cookie and a cup of coffee. A half hour later, your grandma and I were still talking with him about what a great chapel it was with all those kids, but your great-grandpa didn't remember a thing, not even the bell choir. He kept wondering about the cemetery. It was as if he hadn't been there, and he and your grandma sat closer to the action than just about anyone. 

The truth is, Jocelyn, I fought back tears the whole time, the whole blessed time. It was almost embarrassing, but the confluence of so much deep sadness and such overwhelming love just about blew out your grandpa's emotions. 

Just that morning, I'd watched and heard you profess your faith up in front of a packed church. To say I was brimming with pride is understatement; but I hope you're not sad to hear that I never shed a tear, not a one. 

In a half an hour, that chapel in the home wrung tears from my soul; but you were a part of it, you and your profession, even though you were nowhere near. You're old enough to understand why, but I'm your grandpa, and it's my job to say what I'm going to. 

I fought off tears because I couldn't help but think this was the world you're walking into, having told all those folks in church earlier that morning that your only comfort was in belonging to Someone else. What thrilled me to tears was the chapel of life that afternoon--its incredible bouquet of sadness and joy, of brokenness and love, loss and gain, laughter and rich, abiding tears. That's the world you're in--you and me and our own four generations.

What you testified to yesterday is a commitment to love as you are loved, a commitment to this world God loved so greatly he sent his son to die. Your grandpa couldn't help but think that my own precious granddaughter, sworn now into the service of the King, was walking into an amazing and awesome world, which is at once not only a veil of tears and an astonishing gift of grace.

You know that already; you're no longer a little girl with her hair in a single braid like a tiara. You already know sadness, and want, and need, and love, and grace. 

It's all of a package in the world He's set before you and all of us, the world He's called us into, a world where, at some time or another, all of us come to expect a trip to the cemetery. 

That's the troubled, beautiful world where He calls us to be salt and light, and a world where he promises, as you know, never to leave us alone.