Robyn.Bowles.es

My Grandpa Tom, my dad’s dad, is dying of cancer. He was diagnosed about a year ago, and I knew before I left for Spain, that my visit with him in July was going to be the last time I would see him here.

My mom has been keeping me updated. He is in Home Hospice now. My grandma is almost always at his side, and there is also always at least one other family member there with them.

My sister asked me if I would be able to come home for the funeral… It breaks my heart to realize that I can’t.

I’ve been thinking a lot about him and our family the past few days. I thought about the fact that my presence at his funeral wouldn’t help HIM in anyway; but as I thought more about it, I realized that it is very likely that I will be the only one of our large, extended family who isn’t there. I want so much to be able to be surrounded by my whole family – by aunts, uncles and cousins whom I haven’t seen for several years, but with whom I share so many wonderful memories. And by my cousins’ children, many of whom I’ve never met.

I want to be a part of the circle of people filling the family room – like we used to do for so many Christmases. Everyone in their designated spot, but also joined by kids and spouses who weren’t yet part of the family twenty years ago. I miss those times. All those wonderful memories are due to the love shared between my Grandpa Tom and Grandma Beth.

My grandparents opened a campground a few years before I was born. It was a 30-minute drive from our home. It always felt like home to me, and I suspect to my sisters and cousins, also. It was where the family gathered. It was almost guaranteed that at least one or two other cousins or aunts or uncles would be there when we’d go to visit. We always referred to their home as “the campground,” never “grandma and grandpa’s house.” Although they do have a house at the campground, the first level of the house contains the campers’ bathrooms and laundry room, and the store.

Some of the fondest memories of my life took place at the campground: swimming; fishing in the little pond; sitting at campfires roasting marshmallows with new friends and my cousins; playing golf on the miniature course that my dad help design and build; watching films shown to campers on Saturday nights while serving them popcorn; Sunday morning worship services in the all-purpose building they called the “decagon” because of its shape. . . The best memories of summer were when we got to stay overnight there for a few days to help out, and I would awake to the wonderful aroma of homemade donuts wafting from the store below. Every weekend my grandma made donuts, it was such a wonderful, comforting aroma. And every summer weekend my grandpa would give hay-rides.
I can still remember the sound and excitement of seeing the big, old John Deere tractor came puttering down the hill with the hay wagon attached to the back, full of hay. Our favorite part of the tour was when Grandpa would drive out and around the pond. There were areas where the earth dipped, and we always looked forward to the bump that would be felt.

To remember my grandpa is to recall a childhood a full of wonderful memories. To remember a family full of cousins whom I always loved to see and spend time with…

My mom went into labor with my youngest sister at the campground, and as she left for the hospital, we stayed with grandma and grandpa before going to our aunt and uncles’ home. Six weeks later, I celebrated my 6th birthday there with several friends. I do not know if my recollections of that day are from my own memories or from the innumerable pictures taken from my dad; but I know we had fun. Grandpa took my friends and me on a long hay-ride, and after that we enjoyed chocolate cake “upstairs.”

My memories of Christmas as a child always include the campground. It was nearly the same every year, but I loved it. When it stopped being the same – going to the campground with a house full of my cousins and aunts and uncles; the crazy gift exchange; playing games with my cousins and getting to know the girlfriends of my older, male cousins who would always be welcomed; a kitchen full of cookies, pies and candies; Grandpa, in his festive pink shirt, playing the organ or the musical saw as we sang Christmas Carols – when all that changed, Christmas changed. But I suppose that is what life does to us – it changes.

My grandparents are wonderful people. Warm, welcoming (they would have people from ALL walks of life stay as guests at the campground), and always focused on Jesus. I know it is the passion of my grandpa’s heart to see people, especially his own family, know the love of Jesus. I respect him for sticking to his convictions, and for being faithful to his beliefs.

I am sad that he is suffering physically now. I am sad that soon, after almost seventy years of marriage, my grandma will be without him, I am sad that I will never hear him play the organ, or the musical saw again, and that I will never hear the exciting sound of that old John Deere coming down the hill. But I rejoice that my family is so full of love for one another that I know my grandpa and grandma will never be alone; and I rejoice that soon, his pain will be gone, and he will hear the words of Jesus saying, “Well done, my good, and faithful servant.”

I am sad that I will not have the opportunity to be at the campground with the rest of my family as they share their own memories of my grandpa and our life together.

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