A Beautiful Life: A Tribute to Grandpa Christian

Late Saturday evening, Christian’s (my wife) grandfather, Clarence Christian, passed away at home, surrounded by his children. 
The turn of events that led to his death happened quickly. In less than a week, an 87-year-old man went from taking up the offering at his church and mowing his lawn to bidding this world and his beloved family farewell.

As I sat in the hospital waiting area on Friday morning, all the family was understandably grieving. The throes of death make it impossible to eliminate grief altogether when someone close dies, because death reminds each of us of the broken creation we live in (Rom. 8). What I think we were all grieving at most was the conclusion of a beautiful life. Beauty, by definition, is something that we desire more of. It’s hard, for example, to turn our gaze away from a mountain range or a sunrise on a beach. Something about beauty satisfies us. God instilled in each of us a longing for this type of excellence, and whenever one of his image bearers reflect God’s beauty, people always notice (Ps. 27:4; Phil. 4:8). And when we behold it, we don’t want to take our gaze off of it. To me, that in some sense describes the grief around the passing of Grandpa. We were not grieving as those who have no hope (1 Thess. 4:13). We were sad to see a life well lived, a beautiful life, conclude. And Clarence Christian’s life was well lived. 

He served his Savior, his church, his family, his country. Here was a man born in poverty in 1929, who married a young woman named Merline and stayed married for almost 65 years(!), raised five children, and kept his household out of poverty. He was a master craftsman whose sweat and blood, literally, went into helping create the buildings that populate Atlanta’s skyline to this day. The quintessential Southern gentleman with a thick accent, he epitomized biblical manhood. He worked tirelessly for his family with modest financial rewards. He was a working class man with a trade. Clarence Christian was never a rich man. But he was never a poor man. But he was also a picture of the American dream that rewards the work and responsibility put into reaching success. He took care of his own. He was self-sufficient. He instilled in each of his children the same ethic and worldview. A volunteer worship leader, he made sure that his kids were in church every Sunday. He took such pride in each of his children, recounting to me each of their various strengths and gifts. He was unfailingly kind and gentle. Before retiring, “Mr. C” (as church members called him) went on staff at his church as the man who oversaw the facilities and property. There are parts of his church that he built, literally.

I wish I could put into words how good of a grandfather he was. In all honestly, he was something almost out of a novel. Imagine a kindly old man; a devoted Christian who always donned his Sunday best. He almost always had a cup of coffee in his hand—coffee that he would re-heat several times in the microwave because being wasteful was a vice. He built a pool so his house would be a place where grandkids could retreat to at all times (and lots of grandchildren and great-grandchildren were all there swimming but a few weeks ago, unknowingly giving many one last good memory). Every grandchild was entitled to a tractor ride on Grandpa’s lap. His house became the central hub for all major holidays. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that Grandma and Grandpa’s house has an invisible tractor beam that somehow draws you in with the promise of thirst-quenching sweet tea (and, buddy, I mean sweet). I don’t know, but whatever it was, you always felt at home with Grandma and Grandpa. You could find him routinely in the kitchen cooking up his famous popcorn balls, fried shrimp and hushpuppies, fried bologna, or an “Egg-in-a-Hole.” Everyone of his grandchildren all hoped that he would live long enough to see each of them get married and have children. He was a talker who could repeat his stories, but you didn’t care, because they were told with such flavor and precision that you couldn’t help but listen again.

I’ve known him since 2002. I never knew any of my own grandfathers. They all passed away before I was born. But Christian’s grandfather treated me like one of his own. He even called me his grandson. That he did so is the closest thing I’ll ever know to what an earthly adoption is like. He often liked to tell people that “if you like the guy who married your granddaughter, you call him ‘your grandson.’ But if you don’t like him, you call him ‘the guy who married my granddaughter.’” He told this same story, again, on Thursday night to his pastor, and he was directing the story to me. I write in tears as I reflect on that. Those are words and memories I’ll tuck into my heart for the rest of my life.

On Thursday night while he was still lucid enough to carry on conversation, his hospital room filled with family. People spilled in and out all night, as if on vigil to a patron saint. When we heard how bad he was, we dropped what we were doing and sped down to Atlanta. And everyone else in the family did so as well. Only a man so loved could effortlessly demand the attention, time, and affection of family so eager to abandon their daily tasks to honor a man they know as their father and grandfather. One image I’ll never erase out of my mind was his wife, our “Grandma,” standing up beside him, looking attentively at him while holding his hand, despite her own health ailments that make prolonged standing difficult. If that isn’t steadfast devotion, I really don’t know what is in this world.

Grandpa’s pastor came in to greet the family and to pray with him. The spirt of the room was calm and sweet. Grandpa was aware that he was dying. After his pastor concluded with a prayer, in one of the last things I’ll ever recall him saying before I left the room, he told those in the room, “I hope I die with a smile on my face, because I know where I’m going.” This is a man who had the courage to face death because he knew that his Savior had already beaten back death. Oh that each of us would face our own destiny with such boldness! There are many reasons to want to be like Grandpa, but that might be the greatest reason above all.

Everyone dies, but some people die in very bad circumstances. Perhaps the family is divided or there’s unanswered-for hurt. But Grandpa’s passing can’t be described in this grim manner. His life was beautiful. It is a life that any of us would desire to live. His own death bares witness to the quality of life he lived (Ps. 116:15).

Almost 65 years of marriage later, with swarms of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to testify, Clarence Christian has finished his race. He has given everyone in his family a legacy to live up to and remember. He has fought the good fight of faith. He has taken hold of the eternal life to which he has been called because of the good confession he made in the presence of many witnesses—his wife, his family, his friends, his church—that Jesus was his Lord and Savior (1 Tim. 6:12). A good and faithful servant has heard from his Master, “Well done” (Matt. 25:23).