superheroes

You sat down in the first brown pew on the right side of the church, your grandfather’s blond oak casket in front of you slightly to the left. You remained there even though we—Todd, Sammi, and I—were three rows back. You weren’t afraid, not like I would have been at age fifteen. Then again you had a couple hours to get comfortable inside this white, steepled, stained-glass-windowed country church of my childhood, wandering up and down the lavender-carpeted aisles amidst clusters of family and long-ago neighbors. You took it all in–the tears, the hugs, the caring words, the laughter, the many stories about Grandpa Howard.

While you explored, I visited with people I’d not seen in years. The now elderly mother of a boy from my Sunday school classes. The three men who, as teenagers, had baled hay on our farm during summers. Their father would simply drop them off at our driveway, explaining that they were working for Howard that day. But their faces conveyed warmth and satisfaction at the memories, especially when the workday was finished, and they could eat the sumptuous meal my mother always had waiting for those willing to help with the back-breaking work of haying season.

Just before the prayer service began, I took you away from everyone and walked you to the spacious gathering hall. We sat down at one of the many tables set up for tomorrow’s funeral. You ate the cold supper I’d packed earlier so your blood sugar would remain stable.

When we reentered the sanctuary, some people had left. The pastor invited those who remained to be seated for a time of sharing before the service began.

Your cousin, Mat, was the first to speak. Now in his early thirties, he shared, through humor and tears, an essay he’d written when he was 12 years old. He talked about a man who’d taken him fishing, come to his games and other school events, cared for him when his parents were gone, told him silly jokes that he could listen to all day long. A man who could take delight in a big bowl of popcorn or a mind-sharpening game of cards. Would that everyone could have a Grandpa Howard in their lives.

You listened intently when Aunt Heidi walked to the lectern. She compared our dad to a superhero because he’d come to her rescue when, as a very young child, she’d tried to wander onto the big road that went by our farmstead. He’d caught her in the nick of time, picking her up in his strong arms and bringing her to safety. Throughout her life, she knew she could always depend on him to be there.

Was this what spurred you to suddenly stand up—this talk of superheroes—just as the pastor began to rise from his seat? You glanced back at Todd and I as if to request permission. We nodded, not surprised you would want to share your heart. You, who we once feared would never grace this world with your words.

Ultra-tall and lean, dressed in slim black pants and a steel-blue polo shirt, you walked up the shallow steps making your way around the casket to the lectern. Like a willow branch you bent down to reach the microphone.

“Would someone raise the mic for him please?” I’d wanted to say. But I stayed quiet, deciding it wouldn’t be appropriate. After all, it didn’t seem to bother you, nor did you appear nervous or emotional as you began to speak.

“My grandpa Howard was the best grandpa you could have. You know, he’s always felt like Maurice from Beauty and the Beast to me. Oh, and I’m so glad to see Uncle Paul here tonight. I’ve been kind of worried about him.”

Like the others, you spoke from your heart, only your comments included several references to Disney and Marvel characters. It’s a style we’ve come to expect from you, and it added just the light touch we needed. You didn’t ramble, but quickly came to an appropriate ending by way of a quote from one of your favorite Spiderman movies.

“I just want to say one more thing. Remember, with great power comes great responsibility.”

Oh, how proud I was of you in this moment.

You, who’d taken all you knew about Grandpa Howard, including every welcoming smile he had for you, his encouraging words and generous laughter. You’d caught pieces of stories floating throughout the church as well as thoughts shared from the lectern. You took all this and found something from your world–from what you are passionate about–and summed up his life with a wise quote meant for a superhero.

And you were spot on.