When someone’s voice would rise above all the rest and be heard across the room, my wife’s family, the Davises, would remark knowingly, “He has the gift of projection.”  A little after nine in the morning a week ago Friday, a man who had, and I would say still has, the gift of projection, died in our home.  That man is my father-in-law, better known to most as “Grandpa”.

He passed into the next life at 91 years and 1 day old, or as he would have said it, 91 years, 9 months, and 1 day old.  When I say he had the gift of projection, I don’t mean that he spoke loudly, though he certainly could make himself heard.  What I mean is that his words projected an uncommon weight and influence.  They did so because, by the grace of God, they emanated from a life so well-lived.

A retired dairy farmer, Grandpa lived with us for some fifteen years. He tended to burst out of his room as if shot out of a cannon, ever on a mission.  At 90 years old he was still delivering meals-on-wheels to “the old folks”, staying active in church, keeping up with politics, quizzing us from the newspaper on where the highest and lowest temperatures in the country were, reading his Bible at length, praying for his 27 grandchildren and their parents, mowing the land on an old Massey Ferguson tractor, and working with the hands made large and strong by decades of working a dairy farm.

But I believe there was even more power in his words than in his hands; In the evenings Grandpa’s voice could be heard as he made daily calls to buoy old friends, encourage grandchildren on their birthdays or any other time he thought they might need it, and reconnect with a host of other people from a life lived stitching together warm human bonds.  He would meet strangers and inform us later that they were joining us for Thanksgiving dinner.  Four months ago he gave the toast at my second oldest daughter’s wedding.  His godly words were a centerpiece of the celebration.

But only a couple weeks later he emerged from his room limping badly with no remembrance of a fall – turned out to be a cracked hip.  That was the start of a steep three-month free fall, from limp, to cane, to walker, to wheelchair, to bed.  The hip would get better, but then other things would go bad.  This vigorous vibrant man suddenly grew weak, shrinking before our eyes until finally, even the booming voice became only a dry whisper. Yet Grandpa’s words, though they became fewer, quieter and more halting, somehow, if anything, grew in impact.

After some initial testing to rule out treatable problems it became clear that there was nothing substantial that we could medically fix.  Grandpa was dying.  In his case, sending him to the hospital would only add misery and isolation to the process. We were able to keep him home as my wife was able to stay with him and many family members and folks from church pitched in to help.  The months carried many labors, many tears, many messes, but also many mercies.  After several days of unresponsiveness, Grandpa would suddenly wake up clear-headed and bless, guide, or express affection for someone in simple words given mass because of the man from whom they came.

There was a certain soul-satisfaction in meeting his basic needs.  And though there were sharp words on rare occasions, Grandpa was mostly humble and appreciative.  I am well aware that for many caring for aging or dying parents it is not that way.  These were great mercies to us.

In Grandpa’s case we were very thankful to be able to keep him home and let him spend his last weeks surrounded by people he loved and who loved him.  His final passing was gentle.  Though death is almost never pretty, his was at least peaceful.  Over his final few days, Grandpa became almost completely silent except for his increasingly labored breathing.  Then one morning he lay in his bed in our home watched by his oldest daughter and finally there was a breath not followed by any more.  He was wholly silent… but not really. It is not just wishful poetry to say that Grandpa’s voice still projects to us.  His life and words resonate in our mind and heart.  God gave this humble, hard-working dairy farmer much mercy and an unusually powerful gift of projection, and I can still hear him loud and clear. And the temporary labors and messes of the past months are more than outweighed by the memorable mercies.