still remember the anticipation building inside me as my strong, wiry-framed grandpa picked me up and boosted me to the handlebars of the kiddie swing.
The kiddie swing was one of three swings around the parameter of Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Shreveport, Louisiana. It consisted of wooden handles Grandpa had handcrafted and run along a sturdy wire, each end fastened to a gargantuan oak tree. It was a zip line. There was nothing kiddie about it.
Some afternoons Grandpa and I would play beanbags on the back porch. Other afternoons I would look for Grandpa in the metal tool shed, following the tune he was humming as I approached.
He had a set of tools that were “Kortnye-sized.” I eagerly carried these miniature green versions of his man-sized rake, hoe, and shovel farther down the emerald, grass-covered hill to the garden. It was a secret garden. I found the bright, trumpet-shaped flowers enchanting. Anytime Grandma asked him to shape the Four O’clock bushes standing at the entrance of the garden, I became bent out of shape. It was obvious my cousins would be able to see the garden if the flowering bushes were trimmed. Then it wouldn’t be Grandpa’s and my secret.
At First
It started with the dragging of a foot, the frequent clearing of his throat, loss of details in his carpentry work, then a weak hand grasp. Grandma’s concerns mounted as she observed these changes in her husband. The diagnosis? Parkinson’s.
The news was discouraging to my family, though none of us understood the full implications at the time. Life sped along. Mom and her older sister, Dawni, began buying carpentry tools that were less physically demanding and easier for Grandpa to use. His fine motor skills slid through his fingers and onto the floor like fresh sawdust blown off a project with a quick burst of air. Combined with impaired vision, restless shaking, and his uncanny low blood pressure, Christmas gifts now became jumbo print Bibles, stories on tape, Hurst family music CDs volumes one through 20, accompanied by flannel shirts, sweatpants, and tube socks to keep him warm.
Music was constant. Sometimes our family worked up new pieces to perform upon arrival. Other times we took music to learn while we were there. I practiced for classical violin lessons, we jammed-out with blazing trumpets, smoking strings, flying piano keys, and howling voices like coyotes singin’ to the moon, and we played for evening worship.
As was our Friday night tradition, we walked Grandpa from his bed, down the hallway, and into the parlor to play a little music. We tried to keep a pace he was comfortable walking, but not so slow that his blood pressure wouldn’t bottom out before we reached his chair.
I can’t remember what songs we played, but out of nowhere Grandpa piped up, “Say, have you ever heard this song?” And he started to hum a series of notes so discombobulated it didn’t resemble any song I’d heard this side of the Pacific. Dad, sitting at the piano, rolled an e-flat chord. “Try it again, Dad.”
Grandpa’s voice was raspy and audibly shook as the Parkinson’s had robbed him of his once robust baritone quality. With longing eyes that appeared to be dreaming of a place far, far away, he opened his mouth and sang:
I’ll praise Your name, Lord, and sing Your song
I’ll praise Your name, Lord, my whole life long
I’ll praise Your name, Lord, until I’m home
I’ll praise Your name, Lord, and sing Your song.
© 1979 Singspiration Music
We couldn’t believe our ears. Our hearts were so touched by this message of hope and a man’s unfailing love for his Savior that we had him sing it again. Then, we sang it with him. We sang it several more times. We never wanted to lose this song.
We walked Grandpa from his chair up the hall and to his room where we tucked him back into bed, kissing him goodnight.
Ever Since
“I’ll Praise Your Name, Lord” became a theme in our home and through all our travels. Each weekend we attended a different church, where my father spoke. Every weekend we taught a new congregation Grandpa’s song.
The Parkinson’s continued to worsen. I knew that walking into his room would mean seeing white walls, white lace curtains, and a hospital bed in the deep left corner, covered with white sheets and sundry blankets. Underneath them shook a thin man retaining large amounts of water weight, humming a song. I looked at my grandpa, a Titan in my eyes. Farm boy turned teacher, turned World War II medic, Union College graduate, husband, father, singing evangelist, Camp Heritage founder, photographer extraordinaire, communications director—my grandpa.
I lowered the railing on the side of his bed and sat there talking with him. He usually knew who I was, though his conversation didn’t flow. His mind was unraveling. He became frustrated when he felt something wasn’t quite right and didn’t know why he couldn’t remember what he meant or where he was going in the conversation. It was times like these when his mind escaped to a familiar song. He knew the words better than I do.
What Do You Think?
1. How has the memory of a beloved parent or grandparent influenced your Christian pilgrimage?
2. What part of your character or personality can you trace to that influence?
3. How does the hope of the resurrection comfort you when you lose a loved on to death?
4. About what will your family members be most surprised or proud when you meet them in the resurrection? |
Each time we visited, we tucked him into bed, kissed him goodnight, and wondered if this would be our last.
The evening of Thanksgiving 2008 we were visiting again. He looked me in the eyes, reached up to embrace my shoulders, and whispered, “Oh, honey, live for Jesus. I’ll see you in heaven.”
I restrained my sobs until I reached the dark hallway’s embrace, hoping this wouldn’t be our last shared “I love you.” A little later, Dad and I ended up in Grandpa’s room singing “Power in the Blood” and “Wonderful Words of Life” with three-part harmony.
Mom entered the room almost tiptoeing. Evangelist Grandpa, more lucid than normal, spoke with clarity of thought. He again commissioned us to “live for Jesus,” saying goodbye for now, but not forever. He raised his hands the way I imagine elderly, blind Isaac did, and blessed each of us, praying a prayer to seal the deal.
Pulling out of the driveway, the inside of my body screamed, wishing I could run inside the house to hug him just one more time—just one. I had already taken several “one mores.”
Next Time
I was allowed to satisfy my craving for another Grandpa-hug that December during our Christmas visit. This time my parents, Aunt Dawni, and Grandma were laying funeral plans at the kitchen table.
I spent the afternoon exploring downtown Bossier City with my older cousin, Whitney, while Grandpa rested. We returned to the house, sipping hot cocoa to melt away the chill that soaked through us. Grandpa called for “his girls” and he again made an effort to give each of us individual affection; a hug and a kiss, words of encouragement, and his great commission: “Live for Jesus!”
Father in heaven, for these memories to hold close, and for a great hope that You are returning for Your children, I’ll praise Your name, Lord, and sing Your song.
____________
Kortnye Hurst is a senior communications major at Union College in Lincoln, Nebraska. He grandfather, P.A. Kostenko, passed away in 2009. This article was published March 25, 2010.
