Please don't take my sunshine away
On Tuesday morning, May 12th, 2015, my Grandpa, Stanford Dee Christensen, passed away. It's been a sad two weeks. He was the foundation of our family, the center, our rock. We love him.
I was so lucky to be able to grow up near my grandparents. I don't know my mother's father, so Grandpa Dee is my one and only. When I think of grandfathers, I picture mine, in his short-sleeve button up shirt tucked neatly into his jeans or khaki trousers, a baseball cap perched atop his snow white hair. I remember plastic sacks of plump white Canadian mints in his suit-coat pockets, Werther's Original Hard Candies in the kitchen drawer, frozen candy bars in the freezer in the garage, and vanilla sandwich cookies and Chips Ahoy in the cookie jar. When we were at Grandma and Grandpa's house for dinner several weeks ago, I snagged a cookie from that jar. I just wanted one, but Grandpa caught me, so he grabbed a handful, stuffed them into a sandwich bag, and pushed them into my hands. I still have that baggy of cookies sitting in our pantry.
Grandpa was always giving. We were regular recipients of the huge tomatoes that he planted and grew himself (he babied those tomatoes and was so proud of how big and red and delicious they were), fresh eggs, cans of Pepsi...he drove around and made his deliveries to the people he loved and cared about. And Grandpa loved and cared about so many people. Sometimes, it felt like everyone knew Dee Christensen. Often, individuals I'd never met before would approach with a story to share or a kind word to say about him. He was everybody's friend, an absolute charmer; it was his gift. Whenever we saw each other, he would grab my arm and exclaim: "Well, my goodness, girl!", pull me into biggest, tightest hug imaginable, then whisper into my ear: "It's so good to see you!" He made me feel like I was the most important and interesting person in the world to him, and he seemed just delighted to see me. He made anyone he talked to feel that way; I suppose that's why everybody loved him.
Grandpa Dee could whistle louder than anyone I've ever met. It was piercing. I have two sisters and sixteen cousins, and no matter where we were, when we heard that whistle, we responded. His was a whistle that made it easy to locate him in the stands when you were playing in a basketball game, that silenced noisy rooms at family reunions, and when we all went to Six Flags one year, Grandpa whistled and his grandkids came running to him from every direction in the park. Even as an adult, my head automatically turns when I hear a piercing whistle, instinctively searching for Grandpa Dee. I have a feeling that when we meet again, that's how Grandpa will round us all up. We know exactly who we belong to.
I learned to swim in the pool at Grandma and Grandpa's house in California. Their's was the first diving board I ever jumped off, in my toddler swimsuit and floaties. I lost my first tooth in their backyard. I sat on the barstools in their kitchen as he taught me his favorite childhood songs. Grandma and Grandpa were always there after we opened our presents on Christmas morning. Our family didn't take many big trips or vacations growing up, so much of our time was spent at Grandma and Grandpa Christensen's house, watching movies on their upstairs TV, or riding with them in their motor-home when we went out of state, playing cards and games at the fold-up kitchen table.
I remember when Grandpa hurt his shoulder. I was too young to understand and recall the details of exactly what happened, but I knew Grandpa was hurt. He let me sit on his knee and touch the black stitches, run my fingers over the raised, bumpy scar tissue. That happened over 20 years ago, when Grandpa was well into his 60's. An injury like that might have deterred some from returning to such a physically taxing job, but Grandpa Dee continued to work construction with my Dad every day until May 12, 2015. He was so tough. He was born in 1930, during the Great Depression. He grew up on a farm and used to make me teary-eyed when he'd describe how he hunted and killed the pheasants his family would eat for dinner. I don't believe I would have been a very good farmer. In his early teens, he and a friend or two would hitchhike from Northern Utah to Yellowstone National Park, where they worked in the lodge for entire summers, helping in the kitchen and feeding the bears that frequented the nearby ravine where employees dumped garbage and scraps. He served his country in Korea, although he almost never spoke of it. He survived earthquakes and abductions to the Mexican border. He was fascinating to me. But rather than continuously reminisce about his past, Grandpa lived in the present, with us, creating new friendships and memories and experiences. He was constantly on the go. He did not like to be still, did not seem to find any satisfaction in down-time. His hands were working hands, busy hands. They needed something to do.
My mom always told me that out of all of her kids, I had the most "Christensen" in me, but I didn't like the set of my eyes, my Danish nose, or the fact that my tiny hands could never palm a basketball. These characteristics come from the Scandinavian side of my family; they come from Grandpa Dee. I haven't always appreciated the fact that my face possesses so much evidence of my heritage, of my grandfather. I will never take them for granted again. I am lucky enough to look in the mirror every morning and see hints of my Grandpa reflected back at me.
One of the greatest blessings of my life has been being surrounded by good men. I chose an incredible man for my husband because I know what an incredible man looks like. I have a wonderful father, and I only have a wonderful father because he too had the best example of what a man should be. Grandpa had such a good heart. Whenever I felt out of place, lonely, tired, or unheard, he was a safe place. I could sit beside him, link my arm through his, rest my head on his shoulder or his knee, and feel immediately comfortable and at ease. He always wanted me around, was never too busy for me. Growing up, whenever I was asked who my hero was, his weather-lined face, twinkling blue eyes, and big smile immediately came to mind. I want to be like him. I want to make others feel loved and important, just like he did. I want to make him proud.
Just a couple months ago, Grandpa met Jace for the first time. I remember how he held my baby in his arms so gently and kissed his cheeks, while I sat at his feet. That was a good day. I miss him so much, and it makes me sad that JJ won't remember Grandpa Dee. His passing has left a dull ache in my heart. But even though they won't know each other physically in this life, I think Grandpa will stay close, so that their spirits will know each other when they meet again one day. I'm glad to know that Grandpa isn't really gone, that he is likely keeping an eye on us, staying up to date and current on what we're up to, ready and willing to help us out as often as possible...just like he did when he was with us here on earth.
"And if Christ had not risen from the dead, or have broken the bands of death...there could have been no resurrection.
But there is a resurrection, therefore the grave hath no victory, and the sting of death is swallowed up in Christ."
Mosiah 16:7-8
I love you, Grandpa, and I miss you. I'm so proud to be your granddaughter.
