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Lessons from Uncle Gordy
I stepped out of my Jeep and walked up a short cement walkway, sunken like tumbled and forgotten headstones, to the back porch door. It opened partway, then stuck fast to the slanted floor. You had to walk in sideways to get into Gordy’s place. I saw Grandma’s wringer washer in the corner. I remembered her carrying buckets of hot water to fill that old wringer. It was here where she had worked, washing Grandpa Henry’s heavy denim coveralls.
I knocked on the inside door. Gordon was expecting me. He had had a tumor the size of a small banana removed from his heart, and the cancer had spread. Now he was needing help managing some of his cares. My life was about to become immersed in Gordy’s illness, and his simple way of life.
Gordon had grown up in the same wood frame house from a small child, and had cared for his mother, my Grandma, until she died. He collected old TVs, never married, and stocked and bagged groceries for a living. To all outward appearances, he made no mark on the world. I was a forty-nine-year-old mother of four who grew up in the city. Was there a lesson to be learned from his mundane existence?
Gordon answered the door as usual, with a passive “Hi”, and a lanky step aside to invite me in. I stepped in and looked around the kitchen. I can still remember Grandma cleaning up the place, clacking loose dentures in her mouth while humming old Swedish tunes.
To my right, a red cloth was tacked over a space where two cupboard doors once hung. Gordy’s end of life philosophy on maintenance was simple: don’t bother fixing it, simply make do. Behind the red cloth were stacked a variety of mismatched dishes and antique utensils. I piled a few items of necessity on the counter underneath. I would be living with Gordon and commuting to work for an undetermined length of time.
Then there were TVs. A lot of them. I observed two sets that didn’t work that were stacked on top of each other for a convenient place to stack another TV that did. “We got that old Sylvania in 1952,” Gordon explained. “It conked out in 1966. And Aunt Mabel gave us the old RCA. That one conked out in 1975.” I sat amused on my sleeping cot, eyeing the old relics.
Besides the banter and small talk we shared during his illness, Gordon revealed another side of himself that I had never witnessed before. I saw Gordon weep for the first time. It seemed as if a flood of emotions took over after his heart surgery—as if the tumor had left behind a puddle filled with tears. They would surface in his eyes simply over a get-well card, or flow when he recounted a relative’s misfortune that he felt was worse than his. I never saw Gordy cry over his own problems. He only seemed to think about the needs or the kindness of others. It was as though his illness had brought him to the end of himself, and it left me awed and humbled.
Along with the vulnerability of his terminal illness, Gordon discovered letting go of this life was a time of discovering what he really wanted to hang onto in the next—what was most precious. Our conversations about holding onto faith, and trusting in Jesus helped put his mind to rest over the prospect of dying.
One day in his kitchen, Gordon told me he thought maybe God had had a really important job for him to do. Now that he is gone, I think he was right. God used Gordon to teach me a lesson of quiet dignity. His honest, practical way of life taught me the meaning of being content with what I have. His desire for peace in light of eternity was a witness of God’s faithful working until the end.
That end would come within a few weeks after Gordon had to be placed in a nursing facility. I had the honor of sitting beside Gordon’s bedside and witnessing his peaceful crossing into eternity.
To many people, Gordon’s life may have seemed dull and unimportant, yet he had a lasting influence on people who knew and loved him. After he died, my husband and I discovered this quote in his ramshackle garage. In simple words it put into rhyme the story of his life.
“Build a little fence of trust around today,
Fill the space with loving work and therein stay.
Look not through the sheltering bars upon tomorrow,
God will give thee strength to bear whatever comes
of joy or sorrow.”
—Mary Frances Butts |
