Grandpa Was a Preacher Man
I've been wanting to write about the influence each of my grandparents had on me, but the idea slipped to the back of my brain until the post below on old churches in Sweden.
Those who have heard my testimony know that I don't have a story of dramatic conversion to Christianity from a radically anti-Christian or rebellious background. I grew up in a stable Christian family with parents, grandparents, and extended family made up of strong believers. My testimony is not a Pauline Damascus road change, but more like Timothy's: a testimony of God's grace to me in the family He gave me.
I won't write about my parents - they're still alive and still influencing! But all four of my grandparents impacted me in different ways. I'll start with my paternal grandfather, my Grandpa Hedman.
His listing in the phone book, as I recall, was "Hedman, Rev. A.W." Though, despite the implication in the title above, I don't think he actually actually worked as a pastor the last 40 or so years of his life; he retired after many years at an envelope making company. I can only remember hearing him preach once, at the church my uncle serves, I think on the occasion of the church's new baptistry that had just been installed. He preached with conviction and no little fire, accenting his words like many a Midwestern preacher with an extra syllable at the end, as in "Lord-ah." I don't remember the sermon now, but I do remember I liked it.
His pastoral ministry took place before he brought his family from Minnesota to Seattle, following after his older brother. Back in the Midwest he had done missionary work among the Chippewa Indians, and founded and/or served at a number of churches in small-town Wisconsin and Minnesota. Still, so far as I know, once the family arrived in Seattle he did other work.
There are two things that come to mind when I think of his influence on me. One was his quiet, humble, but dedicated service to God; the other is what I learned about prayer.
As to the former, while not a pastor by employ, for many years Grandpa sent cards and gospel tracts to every new parent, newlywed, and to those bereaved. There was a time in Seattle when every birth, and probably most marriages and deaths (if not all) were listed in the two daily newspapers. Using those, Grandpa sent them cards and information about God and the Gospel on behalf of the church he attended. I remember a small room in the basement of their home, where he had a desk and many different published materials, cards and envelopes. I watched him as he worked once or twice, carefully addressing, signing, stuffing and mailing these simple gifts from the church. I don't think there was much, if any, public recognition or acknowledgement of what he did, but I understand that many came to the church and either came back to their faith or newly embraced it due to that simple ministry.
There was no flash or sparkle, no slick methodology - just conscientious, diligent, time consuming work to reach out to the surrounding community. Yet it had an impact, as God chose to use it in people's lives. God doesn't need our public recognition to accomplish His ends, just our faithful service to Him. He is, as Os Guinness puts it, the Audience of One. He is the only audience that ultimately matters.
That's one lesson worth learning.
The other was more indirect. I can't say I learned to pray from Grandpa Hedman. He never sat me down and gave me lessons. I can't even say I carefully listened to all the prayers he invariably gave at the many family gatherings we had as he blessed the food. They were reverent prayers, and you could tell just by listening (at least my young ears thought they could) that the man speaking them was a reverend. Later in his life, when he grew a beard he looked just like that older gentleman you see in those paintings of a white-haired, white-bearded man sitting at table praying over a loaf of bread. Grandpa resisted (he didn't like the idea of pretending to pray), but eventually he was talked into posing like that painting while his picture was taken.
(As an aside, not too long ago we were in the home of some friends where KMR saw that painting on their wall. She looked at me in shock: "Where did they get a picture of your grandpa?")
There are two specific things I remember related to my grandfather and prayer.
When I was in my third year of college I got a full time internship to work in the engineering department at Boeing. Most days I took the bus to work, and decided to use that time to pray. People might have thought I was staring out the window, but really I was trying to pray. Sometimes I could concentrate. Sometimes not. Then Grandpa had another round of very difficult heart trouble. That motivated me to pray, and regularly. I prayed that he would be healed, and believed fervently that he would be. In God's providence Grandpa was healed. The regular practice of praying for him grew into a regimen of praying for other people and other things. Some prayers God answered as I asked. Others He did not.
I learned two things: the wonderful discipline of regular prayer; and the wonderful reality that God answers prayer how He sees best. It was regular prayer where I really did believe that God not only could but would answer postively. I was praying with faith. So what to do with those prayers that weren't answered the way I wanted? Well, I had to learn deeper, more mature faith, that God is not One to be manipulated by me, that He knows His purposes better than I do, that He works all things for good for those who are called according to His purpose. I may not see that good right away - I may never see it. But I saw it often enough to know the truth of that Biblical promise.
The other remembrance is less a lesson, but was more of a shock to my system. My oldest daughter (we'll call her Sissy, which is what her youngest sister calls her) was born six weeks early by C-section. Her mom, a diabetic, had been suffering toxemia and the doctor thought her pregnancy was farther along than it was. It wasn't, but that's another story. We knew in advance what day the C-section would happen, and that day I went out to eat with my parents, my little sister, and Grandpa Hedman. I don't know where Grandma was or my other sister (bro was in Indiana at IU), but there we were, our meals just brought to the table, when my dad did what he pretty much always did and asked his dad to pray for our food.
Grandpa, the man who seemed to pray at every meal at every family get-together, did something totally unexpected, and said, "I think the new father should pray."
What?!?!?! Me? Out loud? In front of other people? In front of Grandpa, the pastor, the Rev. A.W.? My dad (natch!) agreed with him and I must have stammered out something, I can't imagine what. I was at the same time completely embarrased and terribly honored. That my grandfather would not just let, but ask, me to pray while he followed was pretty incredible. It was one of those moments where I realized I was growing up - as if the birth of my first child wasn't enough of a realization!
Now every time I am able to maintain a good, disciplined practice of prayer I often recall those bus rides praying for my grandfather. And it's not unusual, when I pray in public - especially when I'm asked to pray in public for a meal - for me to recall that terrifying moment in that restaurant. Sometimes I remember both at once. The lesson there? I'm not sure, but maybe God is encouraging me and keeping me humble at the same time.
I have a ton of other memories of Grandpa Hedman, but the above are the ones that seem to have impacted me most. Among all those other memories I remember him as a man of quiet, determined, humble, diligent faith who had a deep reverence for God and His Word.
If that isn't a blessed work of God's love and grace in my life, I don't know what is.
Those who have heard my testimony know that I don't have a story of dramatic conversion to Christianity from a radically anti-Christian or rebellious background. I grew up in a stable Christian family with parents, grandparents, and extended family made up of strong believers. My testimony is not a Pauline Damascus road change, but more like Timothy's: a testimony of God's grace to me in the family He gave me.
I won't write about my parents - they're still alive and still influencing! But all four of my grandparents impacted me in different ways. I'll start with my paternal grandfather, my Grandpa Hedman.
His listing in the phone book, as I recall, was "Hedman, Rev. A.W." Though, despite the implication in the title above, I don't think he actually actually worked as a pastor the last 40 or so years of his life; he retired after many years at an envelope making company. I can only remember hearing him preach once, at the church my uncle serves, I think on the occasion of the church's new baptistry that had just been installed. He preached with conviction and no little fire, accenting his words like many a Midwestern preacher with an extra syllable at the end, as in "Lord-ah." I don't remember the sermon now, but I do remember I liked it.
His pastoral ministry took place before he brought his family from Minnesota to Seattle, following after his older brother. Back in the Midwest he had done missionary work among the Chippewa Indians, and founded and/or served at a number of churches in small-town Wisconsin and Minnesota. Still, so far as I know, once the family arrived in Seattle he did other work.
There are two things that come to mind when I think of his influence on me. One was his quiet, humble, but dedicated service to God; the other is what I learned about prayer.
As to the former, while not a pastor by employ, for many years Grandpa sent cards and gospel tracts to every new parent, newlywed, and to those bereaved. There was a time in Seattle when every birth, and probably most marriages and deaths (if not all) were listed in the two daily newspapers. Using those, Grandpa sent them cards and information about God and the Gospel on behalf of the church he attended. I remember a small room in the basement of their home, where he had a desk and many different published materials, cards and envelopes. I watched him as he worked once or twice, carefully addressing, signing, stuffing and mailing these simple gifts from the church. I don't think there was much, if any, public recognition or acknowledgement of what he did, but I understand that many came to the church and either came back to their faith or newly embraced it due to that simple ministry.
There was no flash or sparkle, no slick methodology - just conscientious, diligent, time consuming work to reach out to the surrounding community. Yet it had an impact, as God chose to use it in people's lives. God doesn't need our public recognition to accomplish His ends, just our faithful service to Him. He is, as Os Guinness puts it, the Audience of One. He is the only audience that ultimately matters.
That's one lesson worth learning.
The other was more indirect. I can't say I learned to pray from Grandpa Hedman. He never sat me down and gave me lessons. I can't even say I carefully listened to all the prayers he invariably gave at the many family gatherings we had as he blessed the food. They were reverent prayers, and you could tell just by listening (at least my young ears thought they could) that the man speaking them was a reverend. Later in his life, when he grew a beard he looked just like that older gentleman you see in those paintings of a white-haired, white-bearded man sitting at table praying over a loaf of bread. Grandpa resisted (he didn't like the idea of pretending to pray), but eventually he was talked into posing like that painting while his picture was taken.
(As an aside, not too long ago we were in the home of some friends where KMR saw that painting on their wall. She looked at me in shock: "Where did they get a picture of your grandpa?")
There are two specific things I remember related to my grandfather and prayer.
When I was in my third year of college I got a full time internship to work in the engineering department at Boeing. Most days I took the bus to work, and decided to use that time to pray. People might have thought I was staring out the window, but really I was trying to pray. Sometimes I could concentrate. Sometimes not. Then Grandpa had another round of very difficult heart trouble. That motivated me to pray, and regularly. I prayed that he would be healed, and believed fervently that he would be. In God's providence Grandpa was healed. The regular practice of praying for him grew into a regimen of praying for other people and other things. Some prayers God answered as I asked. Others He did not.
I learned two things: the wonderful discipline of regular prayer; and the wonderful reality that God answers prayer how He sees best. It was regular prayer where I really did believe that God not only could but would answer postively. I was praying with faith. So what to do with those prayers that weren't answered the way I wanted? Well, I had to learn deeper, more mature faith, that God is not One to be manipulated by me, that He knows His purposes better than I do, that He works all things for good for those who are called according to His purpose. I may not see that good right away - I may never see it. But I saw it often enough to know the truth of that Biblical promise.
The other remembrance is less a lesson, but was more of a shock to my system. My oldest daughter (we'll call her Sissy, which is what her youngest sister calls her) was born six weeks early by C-section. Her mom, a diabetic, had been suffering toxemia and the doctor thought her pregnancy was farther along than it was. It wasn't, but that's another story. We knew in advance what day the C-section would happen, and that day I went out to eat with my parents, my little sister, and Grandpa Hedman. I don't know where Grandma was or my other sister (bro was in Indiana at IU), but there we were, our meals just brought to the table, when my dad did what he pretty much always did and asked his dad to pray for our food.
Grandpa, the man who seemed to pray at every meal at every family get-together, did something totally unexpected, and said, "I think the new father should pray."
What?!?!?! Me? Out loud? In front of other people? In front of Grandpa, the pastor, the Rev. A.W.? My dad (natch!) agreed with him and I must have stammered out something, I can't imagine what. I was at the same time completely embarrased and terribly honored. That my grandfather would not just let, but ask, me to pray while he followed was pretty incredible. It was one of those moments where I realized I was growing up - as if the birth of my first child wasn't enough of a realization!
Now every time I am able to maintain a good, disciplined practice of prayer I often recall those bus rides praying for my grandfather. And it's not unusual, when I pray in public - especially when I'm asked to pray in public for a meal - for me to recall that terrifying moment in that restaurant. Sometimes I remember both at once. The lesson there? I'm not sure, but maybe God is encouraging me and keeping me humble at the same time.
I have a ton of other memories of Grandpa Hedman, but the above are the ones that seem to have impacted me most. Among all those other memories I remember him as a man of quiet, determined, humble, diligent faith who had a deep reverence for God and His Word.
If that isn't a blessed work of God's love and grace in my life, I don't know what is.
Labels: Family
