In Loving Memory of Grandpa Vrieland

Over the course of nearly 11 years, I have spent many hours considering what costs and benefits have come with living in Thailand. So many times I have thought about the great joy it is to follow God's calling in my life, about the ways that God fills me with his Spirit for just the right moment or just the right conversation. Other times I have spent wondering whether the cost has been worth it; the amount of time that Gerrit has spent away from family, the difficulties of navigating cultures, and the sadness of sometimes feeling alone. 

Today is one of the days where I count the cost. I know that my Redeemer lives, and that his call on my life is far more than what I can understand. I know that my hope is in Christ alone. 

But I mourn the loss of time with my family. Particularly with my grandpa. 

He passed away last night (well, last night in Thailand time), and I woke this morning to a string of messages from my family about his declining health, with the final one requesting that I call my parents. My conversation with them was short and contained the information that I knew it would: Grandpa had passed away. 

It was quick. It was peaceful. And I am grateful for that. 

But I missed the updates as they came and the ability to grieve with my family during those hours. I missed being able to see Grandpa last summer because we chose to remain in Thailand rather than face all the COVID-19 restrictions in our travels. I missed time, conversations, hugs. And I'm grieving the loss of those things about as much as I'm grieving Grandpa's passing. 

This post today is a way for me to start working through this grieving process for a grandparent who meant so much to me. It's a way for me to write down some of my best memories of a man who was strong and imperfect and loving and always there, even if only in the background of my life.

 Grandpa Vrieland - this is for you. 

When I was a kid, you were known to me as the "Gun Lake Grandpa," the "shaky Grandpa," and the "fishing Grandpa." I hated when you pinched my cheeks and said "Pinch 'em! Pinch 'em!" while you laughed and pinched too hard. But I can still hear the laughter in your voice and the particular pitch at which you said those words. And I smile at that memory. 

I remember how you used to blast classical music in your house. Around Christmas time it was Handel's Messiah that blasted, just to change things up with the season. In the summer at the lake, you sometimes chose hymns instead. But when we got into your Cadillac, no matter what time of year, your radio was always tuned to the classical music station, and the volume was always up way too high. You'd apologize and turn it down sometimes. Other times you'd just start humming along with it as you drove. Every time I'd roll my eyes and accept the fact that you were kind of a quirky grandpa.

I remember your Christmas pants. Oh, Grandpa, did you know how much we laughed at those green and red plaid pants? Every Christmas you'd wear them, and every Christmas we wondered why. 

In the summer I remember how you used to spend so much time sitting in the rocking chair in the garage. If we grandkids had a game of whiffle ball going on, you'd pull out that rocker and sit up there and watch us. Sometimes you'd watch us rollerblade. Sometimes you'd sit on the deck by the lake and watch us swim or jump off the dock or do who knows what other shenanigans we did as kids. And when your grandkids grew up and had kids of their own, you'd do the same. You'd sit inside and watch Gerrit play with the toys in the basement. You'd sit outside and watch the kids roll around on the grass, or play with the water toys on land. You'd pinch your great-grandkids' cheeks the same way you pinched ours. You took joy in watching their antics, in seeing their personalities come out as they grew older. You were not above bribing them with snacks so you could get a quick cuddle or kiss. 

I remember how much you liked to sit in that giant black tube in the lake. Most of your grandkids avoided that tube, not so much because it was yours, but more because it attracted horseflies when we were on it. Maybe horseflies didn't bother you so much. I never could figure out why you always chose that tube to float in, though. 

I remember you as the fishing Grandpa for a reason - every morning during the summer, you'd take that old fishing boat out on the lake for hours. Sometimes you'd return with a fish that was worth keeping...but most of the time you didn't. You showed me how to clean a fish that you'd caught (and to be honest, that memory scarred me for a while!). No one else really seemed to want to eat Gun Lake fish as much as you did. But your grandkids would sometimes go fishing with you, too. The last time I was with you at Gun Lake, we even convinced Gerrit to go on a ride in the fishing boat with you. He was so scared, but you held him close, and when you two returned, Gerrit was full of smiles and laughter about the bumpy boat ride you took him on!

Most of our time was spent with you in your house or at the cottage. But the times you came to visit us were special, too. I always looked forward to you coming at Grandparents' Day at our school. I loved to show you around my classroom each year, and see you at my house when I got home from school that day. 

When Michael and I moved to Thailand, you were encouraging and supportive. Our first few summers returning to the States, we'd get together with you and Loretta. "We know a good Chinese restaurant," you'd say. We'd go to First Wok with you both, have lunch, and talk about the last year. "How is Taiwan?" you'd ask. I'd laugh a bit and reply, "Well, Grandpa, I'm not sure because I've never been there. We live in Thailand." "Oh, that's right. Thailand," and our conversation would continue. You and Loretta asked us great questions about our lives there - about culture, ministry, and faith. I hold those conversations close to my heart; it meant so much to me that you both were so intentional about understanding our lives and wanting to hear about the ways in which we'd seen God working each year. 

When I was pregnant with Gerrit, Michael and I didn't want to know whether the baby was a boy or girl. We had a hard time coming up with girl names, but the boy name was easy. We wanted to name him Gerrit, after Michael's grandpa, and Jay, after you. You were not perfect, but you spoke about and lived out your faith. You loved your family with a deep and strong love. And it was those qualities that I hoped my son would inherit from you. I know your legacy lives in my heart, and I hope that it will live on in Gerrit's life, too. 

Our last conversation a couple of weeks ago is one I will treasure. Once we established that the phone call didn't cost me any money (which was always a concern of yours), we talked about life. We talked about death. We talked about faith and shared a few moments of joy mixed with sadness. I knew then that I wouldn't get to see you again, but I didn't know that I wouldn't get to speak with you again. I thought I had more time to call, but it turns out the Lord had other plans for you.

So today, Grandpa, my heart is filled with bittersweet feelings. There are things I wish I had done more of. There is sadness knowing that I can't be with the rest of the family to process your death and to remember all that was good. But there is hope; I rejoice that you are with Jesus. I hope that the music in heaven blasts far louder and more joyfully than your music did on Sunday mornings.

I'm holding on to a precious memory I have from right before Grandma's funeral way back when. You know the story because I wrote about it and shared it with you once. Uncle Tim and I were practicing our eulogies together in a room upstairs in your house. When we finished, he took a nail out of his pocket, pressed it into my hand, and told me to hold it when I spoke at Grandma's funeral the next day. He said, "Whenever you feel like crying, hold this tighter, and remember: it is because of a nail like this that you will see her again someday." 

I still have that nail, Grandpa. I have it here, and I pick it up every once in a while, remembering that moment. I'll be holding it this week, remembering you and your faith and all that you stood for. Just like I did with Grandma, I'll remember: it's because of a nail like this that I will see you again someday. 

It's because of a nail like this that I will continue to follow God's calling in my life. To love those who are lost. To love my husband and together with him to teach my son what it means to live in faith. 

God has been faithful to our whole family and will continue to be. That is a theme that I will remember as a part of your life, and an assurance that I will continue to rest in for the rest of mine.

I'll miss you, Grandpa. See you on the other side.