This is how I celebrate my great-uncle Kenny, who passed away peacefully in sleep after a battle with that terrible C word, after 92 years full of life living, the morning after I celebrated 27 years of my own.
As is traditional in this woodsy backcountry region, he wasn't known for outbursts of affection. But my sisters and I never doubted that he loved us unconditionally. Under what might be viewed as a gruff exterior was a gooey center ever willing to take a gaggle of giggling girls on the pontoon boat to angle for panfish. He never rolled his eyes at our "care" for our catches; laying them carefully on the ice, naming each one thoughtfully ("Robin 1", "Robin 2", "Robin 3"...). He patiently baited our hooks when we squirmed like the worms we were trying to grasp. And never truly berated us when our cleaning attempts resulted in paper-thin fillets, though we were never free from a bit of ribbing.
He watched football patiently over and around and even through our little bobbing heads in the living room. Some of us even grew to look forward to our spot on the carpeted floor by the rocker and his couch as the Vikings took the field.
I celebrated the blessings in my life last week, and take specific time to celebrate Uncle Kenny's significant contribution to those blessings. He was immensely proud of me, and I knew it. He was integrally involved in my education, from grades 1-8 in the small church school he supported both financially and through site maintenance; to high school, college, and graduate school through a generous scholarship fund that benefited multiple church friends. Whenever I came home from studies, I had two questions: How's the learning (and now, job) going? and When you bringing a boy home? Though it was never overtly spoken, I knew any male figure needed express approval by my 3rd 'grandfather'.
Beyond the fishing and football, hunting and wood hauling, one of my favorite memories involves me getting into a bit of a scrape (per usual). We had taken a family bike trip 4 miles to Uncle Wally's house, I on a bike I had just learned to ride. It wasn't until we reached our destination on a hill, however, that I realized I didn't know how to operate the brakes. As the bike picked up speed, I surveyed my options: coast straight down the road, missing the turn and likely lost forever; turning sharply right into the gravel drive, losing control of the bike and adding 7-8 pounds of gravel to my beanpole frame; coast to a stop at the side of the road, tempting fate that I would stop before crashing into the brown van parked at the roadside; or taking a gradual right turn into the large arbor vitae bushes at the side of the driveway. The last option seemed like the best at breakneck speeds, so I altered my trajectory toward the greenery. The bushes were exceptionally deep, and the repeated branch slaps effectively slowed my descent whilst knocking my helmet askew. I emerged from the bushes, small chunks of bush hanging from my outfit, feeling quite proud of my choice for safety. There was Uncle Ken, laughing the hardest I ever remember, unable to pause to comment.
I smile every time I remember.
He was one that contributed to the lives of others, however quietly. The undercurrent that moved things toward completion. The benefactor for agencies of good. And I want my life to be loved as a memory to his. To live as one who glorifies the lives of others through a spirit of giving and humility. One who gives unconditionally, never calling attention to those gifts.
Thank you, Uncle Ken, for teaching me how to love.
Now, sleep well until our Jesus comes in clouds of glory and commands you to awake, in a recreated and renewed body, free of sin's maladies, and calls you to your new home. I'll catch up with you in the clouds en route.
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