The Threads That Bind

The cute little blond, Grandma Debbie and my beautiful niece

I said goodbye yesterday to a piece of my childhood.



I was raised in a small town, the kind of place where moms let us ride our bikes in the summertime until the streetlights came on which was our signal to head home.  On warm summer Friday nights, my friends and I would walk down to the Rio theater and then walk home along tree lined streets, soft light pouring out of the windows of homes as we passed by.  We slept out in our sleeping bags in the yard and knew it was time to quiet down when my dad would pull into the driveway around midnight, returning from his shift at the paper mill.  I rode my bike to the baseball field and watched my friends play all afternoon, racing to retrieve foul balls to trade for a free snow cone at the concession stand.  We played football on the lawn of the Methodist church until " touch " evolved into " shove ", at which point we would head to the nearest home for lunch.

In the winter, if it snowed enough, our house became home base for all our friends.  The hill we lived on was blocked off by the city allowing everyone to slide down it until late at night.  We would slide down and over homemade jumps until our hands were red and numb, our hair matted with melting snow.  At that point, we would retreat to our carport where my mom kept the hot chocolate in a thermos for everyone to enjoy.

And through it all, church was a constant.  We would play Risk after church in the fellowship hall, a board game that lasted for hours.  We had winter hayrides and summer potlucks.  My brother met his wife at church when I was 12.  He was 15 and she was a cute blond with freckles.  He was quickly smitten and began to spend a lot of time at her home.  Since I pretty much went wherever he went in those days, I became friends with her family also.  Her father, a barber, cut my hair in the utility room. Her mom put a plate out for me at dinner time.  I learned to play cards around their dining room table.  Her brother Ted and I would pile our skis into the back of his little orange truck and head up the mountain.  Their home became a regular holiday stop for me as I met their cousins, aunts and uncles.  I called their grandmother Grandma Debbie.  Eventually, Ted and I became groomsmen in each others weddings.  Their family became my family.

As the years have passed, our lives are still entwined.  We share two nephews and a beautiful niece.  I have become a pastor at the church where they attend.  When I speak on a Sunday, I always get a sense of security as I spot them in the congregation.  Our children attend the same youth group.  I am their youth pastor.  Their family is my family.

Yesterday, I said goodbye to a piece of my childhood.  I went to the hospital to see Grandma Debbie.  At nearly 95 years of age, God is calling her home.  When I saw her lying on the bed, frail and fading, I expected her to be disconnected and remote, unaware and distant.  She was not.  She was full of energy and very much the Grandma Debbie of my childhood.  Her granddaughter, my friend, was combing through her hair gently with her fingers.  She had to lean in close and shout to Grandma Debbie who I was, and even though I'm fairly sure that she didn't recognize me, she gave me a hard time at my expense, the same person I remembered. In the hallway,  I had the privilege of hugging my niece, on the week of her wedding, as her tears began to fall before she went in to say goodbye to her great grandmother. I had the honor of standing in a hospital room with people who had invited me into their lives as a child as they said goodbye to someone they love.

As I was preparing to leave, Grandma Debbie told me to make sure to come visit her.  Holding her hand, I kissed her on the forehead and told her that I would definitely see her soon.


As I grow older, I understand that my life resembles the quilts that my grandmother used to make, some of which are displayed in my home.  Separate patches seemingly different but  when viewed from above revealing a beautiful design. Each patch is connected to the other by thread.  And so is my life.  All of my life experiences are seemingly disconnected from each other.  But as I view them from a higher perspective, they reveal a beautiful design. And as I left that hospital room yesterday, I thanked God for my family and the threads that bind us.