A few family members have asked for a copy of the Personal Remembrances given at Grandpa's funeral on Saturday. I thought posting it here would be the easiest way to let it get around to people. Please feel free to print, share, and give away.
Good morning. I am Debby’s daughter Krista. I am honored have this opportunity to talk about
my Grandpa. I have tried to listen in
the past few days and record the kind words of others and add them to my own
reflections. I hope I got the details right,
or at least am able to accurately represent who he was and what he meant to
us.
Grandpa had an infectious
laugh. It started with a gasp of
surprised pleasure and ended with him tossing his head back. “Ha..Haaa….HAAA!”. I can’t imitate it, although I am startled to
hear another version of it coming out of my uncle Dan, my brother Tim, and
occasionally even my mom. I would
characterize him as a happy person, even though he had his moments of gloom
like we all do. His secret to happiness
is found in Nehemiah 8:10: “The joy of the Lord is your strength.” He knew the Lord, and his relationship with God
gave him strength to overcome the hard things in his life: illness, death,
separation, and hard work.
In recent years, Grandpa enjoyed
the help and comfort of friends and family.
All of you who gave time and love so selflessly meant the world to him,
and also to those of us who had to be far away. First and foremost, his daughter Esther
Redington and family cared unceasingly for Grandpa and Grandma these past 12
years after they moved to Minot. It was
a joy to them and a wonderful testimony to us how they lived out 2 Thess 3:13: “Do not grow weary of doing
good.” It means so much that Grandpa enjoyed these things in these past few
years: three big helpings of dinner this past thanksgiving, watching the birds
outside his windows, looking at cards and pictures, using Skype to wave at his
great-grandchildren, and going for short walks outside. Thank you. Thank you so much.
“Ah,” Grandpa said recently to a
fellow pastor who visited him often, “you still make house calls!” So many of you did just that. You made house calls, whether you listened to
him talk about his aches and pains, bought him a piece of pie, gave him a ride
somewhere, read him a piece of mail, prayed with him, or drove him out to the
country so he could spend an hour sitting with Grandma. Thank you
Grandpa spent sixteen years as
chaplain of The Baptist Home in Bismarck, ND.
There he visited the sick, prayed with the hurting, and held the hands
of the confused. These were all things
he did to perfection. In his early
career he travelled many miles in rural farming communities, brightening
people’s days and praying for them in the even, reverent voice he used to talk
to God. Out of all the memories about
Grandpa that people have shared in the past few days, prayers come up most
often. He prayed at dinner, in front of
his church, and at family gatherings before we went our separate ways. I would like everyone here to raise your hand
if you know Orville prayed for you. Now
please raise your hand if you remember him praying with you.
After Grandpa retired, he didn’t
stop working. While I was growing up in
California, he kept a set of work clothes at our house, a pair of blue jeans, an
old yellow shirt, and a pair of brown leather boots. When Grandpa and Grandma would come out to
visit he’d put on his work clothes and see what needed to be done around the
house and yard. One time I remember him
showing me how to remove the fabric softener dispenser in mom’s washing machine
and clean the gunk off it with a toothbrush.
No job was too small or too humble.
He also kept busy with his
rocks. He was a member of the North
Dakota Gem and Mineral Society. He spent
many hours cutting and polishing stones and making things with them, finding
beauty in unexpected places. If you look
around as we are milling about you will see things he made. The men in the family are wearing tie tacks
and bolo ties, and the women are wearing necklaces.
Most of all, Grandpa loved spending
time with his family. I could tell by
the tender and respectful way he took care of his own parents, Gust and Elsie
Meth, who both enjoyed long lives. On a
visit when I was in junior high, I watched my great-grandma lecture him about
being an hour and a half late to pick her up for dinner. This was inexcusable. She let him know it. He stood still and faced her, hanging his
head slightly to meet her shorter gaze, his ears burning a little red with
embarrassment. Truth was, he wasn’t
late at all. She was confused. He didn’t see the point in correcting
her. He just listened, his silence
becoming the gentle answer that turns away wrath.
One word
describes my Grandpa and Grandma with their grandchildren: tickled. In their laundry room hung a red, heart-shaped
pillow mounted on a stick. “Grandma’s
Paddle” it read. I didn’t get the joke
as a child. Why would Grandma spank you
with a pillow if you were bad? “That’s
okay,” said Grandpa, “I’ll show you Grandpa’s Paddle!” he said, playfully
brandishing a ping pong paddle and chasing me around the room, giving me love
pats on the behind as I shrieked with laughter.
He had a special smile that he reserved for all of us, while napping
with Dorothy on his chest, showing Tim his rock collection, picking up the tab
on a family lunch at Red Lobster, or finding the American flag that
two-year-old me was pointing to way off in the distance.
These past few nights I have sung a
bedtime song to my girls that I remember him singing to me as I fell asleep:
Go to sleepy little
baby
Go to sleepy little
baby
Go to sleepy little
baby
That’s what the
Sandman says.
The last time we saw Grandpa in person, I had the privilege of
placing my then ten-week-old son into his arms.
He held Devon and they looked at each other while we took pictures, the
flash from the camera glinting off their two bald heads. I always knew we were loved, but I don’t
think I grasped how fervently our lives were prayed over and how much we were
cherished until I became a parent.
As you
know, my Grandma preceded Grandpa in death just seven weeks ago. It wasn’t the end of a 63-year love story,
but more like the page at the end of the book where it says “and they lived
happily ever after”. Grandpa and Grandma
complemented each other perfectly, her gifts of writing and hospitality helping
him minister more effectively to others.
Most importantly, they enjoyed each other’s company. I remember them sitting at the table after
lunch, their heads bent toward each other, each eating a cracker smeared with
margarine as they listened to Paul Harvey.
I remember him pinning a corsage on her blouse on what must have been an
anniversary. I can instantly call to mind
the sound of Grandma’s alto voice harmonizing with Grandpa’s as they sang
hymns.
I also remember Grandpa sitting
next to Grandma when she was suffering from Alzheimer’s and couldn’t respond to
him, taking her arm tenderly and whispering: “Wie Gietz, Mama, Wie Gietz.” (How goes it, Mama, How goes it.) He was by her side as often as he could be,
ending each visit with the words “’till we meet again.” It goes without saying that he always kept
that promise, but this last reunion definitely outdid the other ones. I don’t know what language we will speak in
heaven, but I know if Grandma gets another Wie Gietz from her sweetheart she
can answer in German “Wunderbar”, that is, (wonderful).
When family gathered together recently
to celebrate Grandma’s life, Grandpa enjoyed sitting in the common room
surrounded by his loved ones singing hymns together. Daughter Debby accompanied them on the
piano. Then the phone rang. 2 ½ year old Devon and I joined the sing-a-long,
our heads touching as he sat in my lap and insisted on holding the phone. Devon asked to sing his favorite song: “Sing Jesuslovesmethisiknowforthebibletellsmeso.” Grandpa was so happy that day, and so free of
the confusion that occasionally marked these final weeks.
As we prepared to hang up Grandpa
wistfully remarked “I want to come to Florida and see you. I want you to come see us. I wish we all could live close and be
together all the time.”
If you ask me, that’s what heaven
is.
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