Wednesday, October 2, 2013
I remember sitting on the floor by Grandpa's chair on the heater vent (all of the cousins will know the spot I am talking about!) while Grandpa sat in his chair with his light on, rocking, reading, and highlighting. I remember sitting there as a little girl, rolling my feet back and forth across the wooden foot massager that always leaned against his book shelf. I'd sit there and ask him questions like, "Whatchya readin', Grampa?" And he'd try his darndest to explain some scholar's opinion of Mary Magdelene to a 6 year old. If I was lucky, when Grandpa had had enough of me asking, "Why, Why, Why?" he'd put down his book and tell me some kind of story. He first told me my favorite story when I was 8 or 9 and I'd ask him to tell it almost every time I'd come to visit, including the last time we sat in the living room together just the two of us, after Grandma Thelma had passed away. Although, by that time I was the one telling him the story, and he just sat there and nodded and smiled. The story was about the time he went into town to make a purchase for the farm in North Dakota. Whatever he was buying ended up being cheaper than usual that day and he used the left over money to buy some exotic thing called a "mouth piano," which I later learned was just a harmonica. When he returned home, he didn't tell his parents about the discounted items and left over money. He said he loved the little instrument so much. He played it every day... until Soloman overheard him playing it in the barn and told Great-Grandpa Sprenger and little Ernie got a whoopin'. Every story Grandpa told had a moral, even if the moral was, "If you're going to spend money on something you shouldn't, enjoy it as much as you can before you get your butt beat...and if you're going to buy a mouth piano, don't play it where your brother can hear you. Oh, and don't lie. You're welcome to leave part of the story out, but don't ever lie." I will forever cherish the stories and advice that Grandpa shared with me, and I will never forget the little lessons he taught us all-either in a sermon or while sitting on the heater. I think I can take the liberty to say, the best lessons he taught all of us were often unscripted, just lessons we learned by watching him live his life. Grandpa was a true disciple and a true gift from God and we are all better people for having known him.