It's only the second post on this topic and the numerical approach is a farce. I was hoping that I'd fall into some sort of orderly approach, be it chronological or logical, but no such luck. As I tease the strands of my conversion apart they come off in their own peculiar order that can't be helped.The next step I've settled on was my father's father. He was a gruff old man who built his own house and refinished furniture. He would drive from West Virginia to Pennsylvania just to enjoy a dinner at a nice little family diner he liked--usually with a load of grandchildren in the back of his pickup under the hood. He drove the whole way around 35 mph. He let me do things others didn't think I was ready to do, like scramble eggs or operate a lawn mower. He always asked me--"Who says,'Abu'?" Since my mother's mother had a weird problem with nursery rhymes, he was the one who taught me all those ancient poems, mostly by singing them to me. He usually swore in Yiddish when I was around, and we ended every visit with our own little ritual. He'd open his arms wide and say "I don't need no kiss." I'd going running into his open invitation and kiss him good. He smelled like tobacco and the outdoors, and he loved me very much.
Granddad had had an interesting childhood. His mother died when he was around 8, and his father couldn't keep their family together without her. The kids were all split up, and my grandfather ended up in a convent orphanage where the nuns raised him until he was around 13. My great-grandfather got a great job for about a year and was able to reunite his family for that time, but the Great Depression hit and once again they were all farmed out. This time, Granddad ended up apprenticed to a Jewish family that made sure he got a high school diploma while he did work for them in their store and home. Somewhere in high school he met and fell in-love with my grandmother. She was a Free-Methodist who wouldn't marry him until he talked to the preacher and had a conversion experience. As you can imagine, this left him with a unique perspective on faith.
My childhood was much neater. My father enthusiastically converted to my mother's brand of Baptist before they married, and I was raised with a fairly single-minded kind of faith. A large part of that faith is "concern for the lost." First the push was on for me to convert, which I did very happily at the age of 3 almost 4, then the focus became for me to convert others. Since my grandparents by this time had fallen into comfortably "backslidden" habits such as not attending church, and so on, they were prime targets for our family to pray for and seek to "convert." For one short year when I was five we lived near my grandparents, and I saw them more frequently than all the rest of my life. I did a lot of praying for them, and finally I felt that it was time to broach the subject. Granddad and Grandma were out in the sideyard getting ready to say goodbye as Dad and I left for the day and I took my opportunity. I asked Granddad if he was going to heaven or not while my dad stood back hoping for a breakthrough and my grandparents looked as if I'd stabbed them.
Granddad loved me and he wasn't going to yell at a child for doing what she'd been taught to do, but he went into a monologue I never forgot. "I've talked to the preacher, and the rabbi and the monsignor and they all say I'm on the escalator to heaven, so don't you worry about me." None of those responses were in my programing, so I pushed for another answer. I don't remember much else about the rest of our brief conversation, but I do remember my grandparent's grief at the way I spoke to them. I believe truth has its own sound, and the sound of their grief at my narrow and judgmental view of how a person comes to salvation had more truth in it than all of my Sunday school training. I felt admonished and instructed, and I've never outgrown that awkward moment in my grandparent's yard.
When it comes to salvation, one size does not fit all. While I do believe that Jesus is the Way, the Truth and the Life, I also believe that he's the final judge of all the ways we come to him. My granddad taught me that.
Step One can be read Here. Step Three continues Here.
2 comments:
One small comment. Your father had settled the question of your grandfather's faith a year before we moved to Martinsburg. When your dad asked him why God should let him into heaven, Granddad replied by quoting the verse that says if we call upon the name of the Lord we will be saved.
Your father was thrilled that his dad knew that scripture and had acted on it. His father had never explained to him how to have faith. When your dad asked Granddad why he hadn't shared that foundational truth with him, he replied that he didn't know how.
Perhaps we didn't clearly communicate to you that the question of granddad's salvation had been settled. Perhaps Granddad was upset with your father for not telling you. At age five, it is easy to misunderstand the dynamics even for one of your perception. According to your grandfather's own testimony, he was relying on his conversion in the Free Methodist parsonage. Your grandmother had two wedding ceremonies to give him the opportunity to go back to the catholic church if he so chose. He never chose to go back. That is a statement in itself.
I thought you'd decided not to read my blog. I'm sorry you are disappointed.
As for Granddad, he never went back anywhere. As for statements, what was the deal with the giant rosary and the picture of the pope? As for perceptions, they are what they are and they did form my decision. They may be faulty. Many memories are, but that is what I remember. That is what I learned.
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