Callie Feyen’s Grandpa taught her to find what she loved to do, and to do it well.
Two things were sure to happen on my wedding day. One, my dress would be the envy of everyone, even Scarlet O’Hara, and two, my grandpa would officiate the ceremony. Once crisp November evening, Jesse asked me to marry him. The next day, I asked my grandpa to officiate. And then I began my search for the largest dress with the grandest tulle skirt that I could find.
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Of course Grandpa agreed to marry me and Jesse; I am one of his granddaughters. But, also the Reverend Stanley Lewis was the friendliest man in the world. His was the sort of friendliness that stemmed from a genuine interest in other people. What you told him, and what he observed about you, he remembered. He would ask you questions, tell you he was praying for you, tell you he always knew you could whatever it was you could barely admit you wanted to try. My dad and I would shake our heads, bewildered at Grandpa’s friendliness. “He makes it look effortless,” we’d say.
He told me he prayed for all his friends. I found this impressive but not as impressive as that he’d just moved in and he already knew all these people.
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One Christmas, we had a party, and I asked Grandpa how he was doing in his new home. He told me about his friends. One who had lost her voice, one who told good jokes, who liked the Yankees but kept it a secret, because after all, Callie, this is Chicago. He told me he prayed for all his friends. I found this impressive but not as impressive as that he’d just moved in and he already knew all these people.
I believe Grandpa’s friendliness was a God-given gift. My dad and I joke that this gift was passed on to us. It might’ve skipped a few generations and found a home in Grandpa’s great granddaughter, Hadley. What my grandpa did pass along to me was that it didn’t matter so much what it is you are good at, rather, that you figure out what that is and you work really hard to make it better.
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While we were planning the wedding, my Grandpa gave me and Jesse a few dogged-eared books with his notes in the margins to help us write our vows. He thumbed over familiar phrases like, “til death do us part,” and “in sickness and in health,” and pointed out a promise he thought we ought to conside. That was, to help each other find what we were good at and to encourage each other to pursue that gift.
He married us at Calvin College on a day in January when the sun shined so bright you could almost get away without a winter jacket. I stood with him, and Jesse, and several of our friends and family members in the dress of my dreams and realized it takes significant shoulder and back strength to gracefully hold up giant full-length puffs of tulle. And I listened carefully to my grandpa said so that I could say my promise back to Jesse.
I’m glad I didn’t have to memorize my vows. I’m glad Grandpa gave me the words in little pieces, and now that I think about it, he showed me how to live out that promise little by little over the years. He always asked Jesse about his graduate school work, and then hurricane storm surge and the folks in New Orleans. He asked me about teaching, and whether I would consider going back to school for writing. When she turned three, he gave Harper a birthday card with Diego and Baby Jaguar on it because he knew those were her favorite TV characters. She still has the card and when she looks at it she asks, “How did he know I liked Diego and Baby Jaguar?” She asks it in the same tone my dad and I used when we were equally impressed by Grandpa’s awareness of those around him.
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That sort of friendliness, I think, takes a great deal of work. Grandpa understood that and he also knew it’s the sort of work you can’t do by yourself.
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I have no doubt my grandpa enjoyed being friendly. But, I also think he was holding up what he thought were our gifts, our vocations, our hobbies, our children, and helping us to develop and care for them. That sort of friendliness, I think, takes a great deal of work. Grandpa understood that and he also knew it’s the sort of work you can’t do by yourself.
One summer before we had kids, Jesse and I visited my grandma and grandpa in Naples, New York. At that point, my grandma had had a stroke that left her memory jumbled and she had trouble walking. We went for a drive one afternoon and I admired my grandma’s pink purse. She said with a grin that Grandpa took her shopping one day recently and this is what she picked out.
Grandpa stopped for ice cream, and as we were sliding out of the car, I handed Grandma her purse and her walking cane. My grandma hooked the purse around her forearm, but quickly shook her head at the cane. “I don’t need that,” she said, flicking her hand and shooing it away. I pivoted and put it back in the car. She grabbed my grandpa’s arm.
“Would you like your cane?” he asked gently.
No,” she said, hugging him closer. “I don’t need that.”
And maybe she was relying too much on my grandpa when she refused the cane and grabbed his arm. Maybe Grandpa thought so too. But he held on to her anyway, and guided her to the ice cream stand.
Their slow shuffle to get ice cream is one of my favorite memories of my grandma and grandpa. Like the vows that he helped me make on January 16, 1999, my grandpa showed me that finding what the other is good at isn’t always easy. Sometimes neither of you will know, and that can be terrifying. But, like he showed all of us, you are never by yourself.
This was originally published as For My Grandpa on Callie Feyen’s personal blog.
Photo Credit: Getty Images