Knocking On Heaven’s Door, Who Will Answer?
When I was ten, the world of writing came to me. I had been reading for years, thanks to my persistent Aunt Norma, my father’s older sister, who got her hands on some Fun With Dick And Jane books. Dick and Jane soon took the back seat to Mickey Spillane, Mark Twain, and John Steinbeck. I was more than smug, quite the little dandy, reading at five years old, while my neighborhood gang of idiots couldn’t spell their name.
Around that time, my mentor, Mr. Cohen, a master gardener, the man who passed on his love of horticulture to a young boy, lost his wife to cancer, then my grandfather, the tough old World War 1 vet, caught a case of it and was wasting away before my eyes. I didn’t know what devastation meant, but it had grabbed me by the collar and shook me good.
Before my grandfather left for the hospital for the last time, he spent a few hours alone with me in his sickroom. Still able to speak and make sense. He told me of his experiences in the war, the trenches in France, the gas attacks, the men he killed in hand-to-hand combat, and the ones he killed from afar with a bullet that had no consciousness. I listened intently, absorbing every detail. War was not like it was presented on television or in the movies; it was raw, cruel, unforgiving, and mentally destroyed many men, including him. He knew it was his last roundup and accepted it with dignity. I didn’t.
The mind of a ten-year-old is wired backward from that of an adult. So, without thinking of what I asked, I said,
“Grandad, when you get to Heaven, what will you do. Are there jobs there? Will you have friends?”
He thought for a while, then answered,
” There might be work, something to keep us busy, but the main thing I want to do is apologize and ask forgiveness for the young Germans I killed in the war. I didn’t want to kill them, but it was my job, and it was theirs to do the same to me. That’s if I get to Heaven, which is a mystery to me, cause I have done some bad things in life, asked for forgiveness, but who knows how much the good Lord is willing to forgive.”
I partially understood: I was a Baptist, but a fearful one, not one of faith, but feared the outcome if I didn’t toe the line. He passed a week later, lying in a bed, reliving the hell of war that he carried till the end.
Not long after that, I was at my other grandparents’ farm in Santa Anna, Texas. My grandfather, a nice man but not particularly fond of the other cousins or me, was working on his tractor and stopped for a rest. I was nearby and sat beside him. He was aloof from us children, seeing us as farmhands, not children to be nurtured or molded, but only as labor, expected to keep our mouths shut and our eyes downcast. He made me nervous; I feared him in a way I shouldn’t have. I did mention that the brain of a ten-year-old is wired backward, so that being said, this is what I asked.
” Grandpa, when you get to Heaven, will you still have to work on the farm?” I said.
He looked at me like there was a third eye in my forehead.
” He sat for a moment and then said,
” The good book says many times that everyone has to work. If you don’t have a trade or labor for your fruits, you don’t eat, you don’t survive, and your family suffers and perishes. God is forgiving, but I think he has a limit to that forgiveness. I expect to be a farmer in Heaven, just as I am here on this God-awful piece of land, and I will do what is required of me. The Angels can’t do everything. I’ve repented for my wagon load of sin, and I think the good Lord has forgiven me, but I won’t know until I get there.” This was a few years after the small miracle that had saved his crops and brought him back to church. He was a different man religiously, but still didn’t have much use for children. He passed away a year later from Diabetes and other illnesses related to my grandmother cooking everything in bacon grease for fifty years.
Two different men, ones that I admired, two individuals that molded me, had given me advice that is with me to this day. We all must repent our sins, ask forgiveness, live with our shortcomings, and we all must work for a living, eke out what we can: dig a ditch, plant a seed, pick cotton, do what we must to survive and give our family and ourselves sustenance and a roof over our head. All these years later, those two bits of advice still make me what I am.
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Excellent read and great message, Phil.
Having older mentors is a valued gift I still enjoy today. They help me lead into my next steps.
Mary, I’m darn old, and all of my older ones are long gone. Some younuns consider me one, but I’m not too comfortable with that moniker. I can’t even tell a Bee not to sting me on the face. Ouch, that hurt.
Well, you probably suspect what sort of question I was thinking about asking you. But I’ll refrain from asking it. Heaven forbid, I should introduce dark thoughts into your mind.
This is such a touching story from your youth, Phil. I loved reading about your relationships with your two very different grandpas. 😁
Thanks for this deep and heartfelt piece, Phil. Those of us who knew both sets of grandparents well and picked up life lessons through their words and actions are the fortunate ones. I hope to be the same sort of grandparent to our grandkids.
I was thinking about this piece this morning, still, having read it last night.
There’s so much in it, life story and people, and all our flaws and things to cherish.
Suddenly I remembered Jesus’ story about the Pharisee and the tax gatherer, both praying in the Temple.
“But the tax-gatherer, standing some distance away, was unwilling even to lift his eyes to Heaven, but was beating his breast, saying, “God be merciful to me, the sinner!”‘ Lk. 18:13, and then remembered that line in Psalms somewhere, “For if You, O Lord, should mark iniquities, who could stand?”
That’s it. We come as we are, and don’t hide anthing. We can’t fix us. He can.
We just love and trust.
I was thinking about this this morning, still, having read it last night.
There’s so much in this piece: people and love, and loss and flaws and how we see ourselves.
And I remembered Jesus’ story about the Pharisee and the tax-gatherer, praying in the Temple.,Lk.18:13
“But the tax-gatherer, standing some distance away, was even unwilling to lift his eyes to Heaven, but was beating his breast, saying, “God be merciful to me, the sinner!” I tell you, this man went down to his home justified, rather than the other…”
That’s it. We come as we are. We can’t fix us. He can, and we get to love and trust only that.
That’s who we are.
Can’t stop thinking about this one. Straight from the heart.
Thank you. In our church, many members of the congregation are not working at this time. There are different reasons: cars are unreliable, infirmities, family issues, and some are simply willing to exist off the charity of others. This bothers me greatly. I have had both my grandfathers on my mind for a while now, and the things they taught me. They were from that generation that knew that no work meant nothing. They were both hard men, from a hard time, and there wasn’t much hugging or touching in their families; it felt out of place to them. Their children, my parents—didn’t bring that into their marriages or to us kids. Generations change, for better or worse, based on the lessons of past generations. I was fortunate and felt this was the right time to address it. I’ve been on both sides of those railroad tracks and appreciate what a little effort can produce and award. Thank you for that heartfelt reply.
Hi Phil, You got two for the price of one, because the first reply I uploaded didn’t come up on the page, so I renovated and tried again. And they’ve both showed up!
It’s true, we’ve all got to do our part; If you can’t work for a real reason, then do everything you can to help. Things are tough still; we haven’t gotten out of the woods yet, and people are just giving up, letting everything slide, and the stronger ones carry too much.
We used to have a poster on our nursing unit: “There are two kinds of people here. Those who are willing to work, and those who are willing to LET them.”
Doesn’t that hit the mark?
That was a very poignant article.
Good stuff, Phil.