I'm my own Grandpa

That pesky children’s American folk tune has stuck in my head years after our boys stopped enjoying it—and it came back to me late last night as I sat quietly on our weathered wood deck. I was grateful for the cool weather, and even more grateful that I’d grabbed a fleece jacket before stepping outside with my icewater to enjoy it.

It was one of those temperature points outdoors where you’re not so uncomfortable that you give up and go inside, but not so comfortable that you’re actually enjoying it, either. I pulled up the zipper all the way to my chin, crossed my arms— and wished I’d pulled something to drink out of the microwave instead of the refrigerator.

For a long time I sat completely still, listening to the distant traffic on Johnson Drive and the wind blowing the drying leaves on the trees around me, watching the low-ceiling of clouds pass quickly between me and the moon. I began to pray, as I do in the evening, thanking God for the day’s joys and blessings, asking for comfort and healings for those on my prayer list, and more. It had been a long time since I’d come outside for my prayertime, and I was happy to be spending it outside, whatever the weather.

A few minutes later, my mind wandered a bit and I had a flashback to my Grandpa Tony—the one-time Colorado cowboy, then a WWII merchant marine, then a southside Chicago furnace & boiler salesman. Both my grandfathers were men of few words (clearly, in my case, the grandmothers’ verbal genes were dominant!)—and I have this many-time memory of Tony sitting on a nylon-strapped folding lawn chair, black shoes on his well-manicured green lawn, smoking a cigar and gazing, it seemed, into empty space.

I could never figure out why he liked it so much: The quiet time. The stinky cigar. The absolute blank gaze in his eyes. It suddenly dawned on me last night: maybe Tony was praying, like I was now. Maybe he talked to God when he was absolutely still. (I knew from experience he worshipped in church without moving his lips, so maybe that was how he prayed, as well.)

On the other hand, Grandma talked quite a bit, so maybe he was just appreciating the peace and quiet.

So now, with Grandpa Tony fresh in my thoughts, I added him to my litany of thanks, as well.

But it made me reflect on how few times of quiet and prayer the average busy suburban dad life includes. I listen to audiobooks or Christian music in the car (and sometimes, to stay in tune with the real world, totally UN-Christian radio, too!). We have two loud boys at home, there’s 80’s rock music in the gym I go to, and the church is usually bustling with noise, too.

If your life –and your world—is like that, I’d invite you to step outside and pull a Grandpa Tony with me (sans stogie, though!): sit down outside, inhale the fall air, enjoy the quiet, and spend time with God. You’ll be glad you did---and so will He, even if you can’t tell it from His face.

12 And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper. 13 When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. 1 Kings 19:12-13