Love Is

Primm

• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Year: 2012
• eBook ISBN: 9781621891352
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Religion

Have you ever tried to understand what real love is in your life? Have you looked through all of the clinical books, watched documentaries, and even looked in all of the wrong places? Well, there is one place you may have forgotten to look. The book I am referring to provides advice on sex, marriage, friends, and even money. The book we forget to look to for advice many times is the Bible, and it has a lot to say on many of these topics, including love. Love Is will take you on one man's journey to find out what love really is. It will explore his life, the stories of others, and take a close look at the greatest love story ever told. So open yourself to a different and very real way of understanding what love is. After reading this book, you will have found one of the greatest things in life, which is love.

1

If I Speak

If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing (1 Cor 13:1–3)

The earliest form of love that I can remember happened before the start of my kindergarten year. I am sure that love had been showered upon me prior to this time, but in this instance I can remember actually feeling that love. I even have dreams from time to time that are as real as the day it happened. There he was my Grandpa Ralph Gale and those sticks of Juicy Fruit gum in his pocket. He was always ready with a smile and a stick of gum to give to each of us kids. He was my mother’s father and in my later years I would finally realize where she got her love from. As for Grandpa Gale, whenever he came to the house, he always had a stick of gum in order to ply a hug from us.

I can remember him coming through the front door of our old farm house. Well dressed as if he had just stepped off the bus in the city. It never took long for us kids to run the length of the living room, clawing at his suit pocket. A large hug was required first and a stick of chewing gum after. He loved us so much, that only now can I truly understand the depth of it.

The last time I remember Grandpa Gale alive was on this first farm. I was probably three or four years old at the time, standing in the open doorway of the corn crib. Strangely enough, I remember this moment in my mind as you might view an old photograph. I remember it as if it were yesterday for some reason. But there is no color to this picture, just the contrasting shades of black and white. I tend to think this is because I was so focused on him that everything else just washed away.

I can distinctly remember looking down the driveway and there he was in his fedora hat, wearing a pressed white shirt and pleated pants. I could see his large smile grinning towards me as he lifted his hand high in the air to wave good bye. It is a memory, a remembrance of him, which has probably been enhanced by childhood and time.

But it is also a picture in my mind that I hold dear in my heart. It is something that I never understood why until years later. It is the impact of his smile, his waving goodbye and what I meant to him. It is the love he had for each of us that filled me that day even though I didn’t know it at the time. What I remember was a smile and a kind word from this man that I never truly got to know. It was his general nature that seemed to tell me that he was something good, that he was special.

That wave goodbye was more of a goodbye than I could have ever imagined. He and Grandma were moving to Long Beach, California. They would live near their second oldest son and also be close to Grandma’s younger sister. Grandpa had retired and the nice California weather would do him well. So many years in the harsh Midwestern climate with its brutal winters and humid summers had taken their toll. California was the place to be, sunshine, warm temperatures year round and the sounds of the Pacific Ocean not far off.

Grandpa Gale’s paradise would not be long for him. He died within two years of moving out to California. A heart attack took him from my grandmother, mother and siblings. He was taken from a little boy that would never again get a piece of chewing gum from his suit pocket. That smile and wave of a hand saying everything would be okay would remain forever just a memory held tightly. He left a gift for me that only years later would I recognize as love.

For my Grandma Gale, mother and siblings, their heart ache was nothing I could comprehend in those days. Even my own brothers and sisters had grief for each of them has special memories of Grandpa and had felt his love. All of the sadness around me was hard to comprehend at such a young age. I knew that something was lost, but how could I know what it was at that age? At that point in my life, it was only a feeling, a reaction to the events going on around me. I knew I had lost something in my life and boundless love in the natural was gone from my grasp without having even realized it.

My grandparents seemed to have boundless love for each other and for those around them. They had also experienced crushing heartache that comes with loving so deeply. Their oldest son, my mother’s brother; my Uncle Jerry had died at the age of twenty while in college. He was a popular and engaging young man, a freshman attending the State Teachers College, later renamed Arizona State University in Tempe, Arizona. He was a handsome fellow whom had inherited his father’s good looks and charm. He was also on the cheer squad, lifting young attractive blonds over his head during college football games. He was living a wonderful life in school, so fresh and on the verge of a long life adventure. He had a lifetime waiting for him just down the road.

Yet, his journey would be cut tragically short. He would not get to travel his undiscovered roads or peek into his future. In May of 1942 he contracted meningitis and died within two weeks from the complications of pneumonia. My grandparents were on a train near North Platte, Nebraska; heading to Phoenix to see their son in the hospital. It was at the Service Men’s Canteen in the Union Pacific Railroad station where they were informed. I am sure they stood there, watching the thousands of other young men, heading off to fight in World War II and knowing many of them would never return as well. They had just lost a son and the contrast of all these vibrant and energetic boys had to weigh heavily on them.

So with that devastating news, they turned around and headed home to Sioux City, Iowa. From there they would await the arrival of their son’s casket. Waiting as a lonely casket had to make its way by train back to Sioux City and to my grandparents. I try to think of his casket and how it must have looked sitting amongst all the other cargo. My guess is that Uncle Jerry’s casket shared the space with other caskets of young men that had already died in the war. My grandparents had all of that time to wait. They had not been able to say a last goodbye or to see one last glimmer in his eye. Love for someone has that effect upon us, the longing to see their smile one more time or to hear them say I love you once again.

It was many years later while in her final days, we had the chance to hear my mother tell us stories, taking us through much of her life. During one particular point, my mother was on medication to ease the pain of pancreatic cancer that had finally taken hold of her finality. She was coherent enough to respond, but was also sinking further into her own memories. We were gathered as family and my brother Jerry was comforting our mother. In a moment of wonder, my mother asked my brother Jerry who he was. He indicated his name was Jerry and she said no, that cannot be correct.

All of us looked at each other when she said to him, “you can’t be Jerry because you are not black.” Was a huge family secret revealed as we all stared in amazement? We looked around at each other until she regained her grasp, cracked a small smile and said, “of course you’re Jerry. You’re my son.” It was a tale that we were puzzled by as we looked at each other and it needed to be unraveled. Through discussion and deduction we finally figured out the mystery to the words she had spoken.

If you go back to the story of ‘her’ brother Jerry’s death, he died in Phoenix, Arizona but was buried in Iowa. This was 1942 and trains were the primary long distance mode of transportation back then. My Uncle Jerry was laid in a casket and took that long train ride back to Sioux City, Iowa where he was met by my grandparents. During transportation, his body developed a darkening of the skin. It was a natural process even with the limited embalming that undoubtedly took place. Our mother remembered seeing her brother when he arrived in Iowa after his death. Seeing her brother and the change in his appearance, his skin had darkened and a leathery look developed. It was a lasting impression on a child, my mother that had felt so much love for her older brother.

Without love, the heartache would never have been felt. The sorrow and compassion expressed by family and friends would have meant nothing without that love they had for Uncle Jerry. The words which were spoken when they laid him to rest would have been empty and meaningless without love. It was the love my grandparents shared for their son that gave them strength to carry on. It is the same love my family has used to carry on in the loss of a sister, a brother and a mother. And it is the same love that God used in the death of his only son, Jesus.

And so it was I saw my own Grandfather for the very last time. It is a memory of him waving to me with a smile as bright as the sun. I was too young to know what his leaving might mean. Too young to think of anything but of whom will I get my Juicy Fruit gum from when Grandpa is out in California. I would like to say that I have carried on his tradition with my own grandchildren, but sadly I hold that memory as my own, not wanting to share it.

It was this early memory of his love that affects who I am today.

Yet back then, life continued as it always does and kindergarten would soon be my daily concern. Your first year of school, full of half days, a rug for nap time and the basic learning skills that get taught fill your mind. For me it was difficult as I was the last one in class to accomplish counting to one hundred. Our teacher, Mrs. Eklund, was very kind and patient with me. This teacher can only be described as my real life Aunt Bea from the old Andy Griffith Show. It might be an unfair comparison in looks, but that is how I remember her for some reason. She had the same sweet disposition but I’m sure she could get frustrated because I was not interested in numbers. It was the different shaped blocks and art class which drew my attention. I wouldn’t say that I developed my art skills all too well, even a college art instructor would put up with my artistic dalliances.

Try as I may, I seemed to get lost in the numbers above fifty. I don’t think it had to do with not knowing the numbers. I think it had to do with letting my mind wander after the length of time it took to even count to fifty. But it eventually happened one day, the numbers kept rolling from my tongue. As I counted, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, the smile on her face grew wider with each one. Ninety-nine, one-hundred and the class erupted in cheers as I had finally accomplished the task. My teacher’s eyes seem to say it all. Mrs. Eklund had constantly encouraged me by saying I would succeed. With every previous failure she spoke of accomplishment in what I had managed to achieve. With each failure I drew closer to success. Her encouragement each time helped me move my mountain towards success.

At last my name was moved to the other side of the chart with the other kids. While I was probably too young to comprehend the meaning of love, I did understand that having my name with the other kids was a good thing. I also knew that the look on Mrs. Eklund’s face meant something good had happened. Her love of teaching and for us kids was what gave us the ability to move our mountains. As small children, those mountains probably seemed like ant hills to grownups. But they were our mountains, our leaps of accomplishment, and they were ours. Maybe the small town of Cedar Bluffs, Nebraska with ten small kindergarten children doesn’t seem so powerful. Yet even the smallest of things are made gigantic with love.

I had first glimpsed love in my Grandpa Gale’s waving smile of good bye, but how then would I first start to understand what love was? When would my life begin to understand some of the mystery and power associated with love? It would happen in the lost moments of a frog, an art project that meant so much to a graduating six year-old.

For most of my life until college, I spent most all of that time on a farm. Yes, I was born in the big city of Fremont, Nebraska. Fremont was a large city in the eyes of someone that had not experienced the larger world just yet. Fremont is a city of 22,000 people that hasn’t grown much in fifty years. My parents and older siblings were living on Union Street in a small house. Two parents, five kids and me on the way, all crammed into a tiny place. This is of course a time I have no recollection of and only know by the stories my parents have told me throughout the years.

It is funny but after all of these years, my siblings still joke that I was adopted. I have one younger brother and never did did they assume he was adopted. I’m not sure where that comes from and I tend to think it has to do with my charmingly good looks. My wife would agree with that but all I get is a room full of laughter at family dinners. I sometimes wonder if it has to do with ‘one more’ person in the house that already was bursting at the seams. Whatever the reason, I’m sure they love me and I love them. Now quit joking about it you guys!

It was on one particular August evening back in my beginning that my story begins. My parents had friends over to the house. It was Saturday night and card playing was a whole lot cheaper than going out in those days, especially if you already had five kids and little money. My mother had undoubtedly decided a cool drink would not hurt and sipped on a small Vodka and Orange Juice with her meal. After a few rounds of card playing, maybe Canasta or Pitch, it was time for everyone to leave.

Early that next morning, Sunday morning at 4:04 AM to be exact, a little red-haired boy to be named Joey was born. For a time after that, my parent’s friends called me Vodka Joe in reference to the cocktail my mother had drunk the night before. Whether it was from embarrassment or the changing times, my mother would tell me that story with apologies for drinking the night of my birth.

I was happy to hear the story because for many of us we believe that we are very ordinary. And maybe we are in many ways, but the small stories passed on by those who love us are stories that are extraordinary to us. No one can take that away from you, it is a gift given and should be held tightly and forever. Love gives us this gift and is our memento to cherish for a lifetime.

Not long after the grand announcement of my birth, we moved from the house on Union Street in Fremont, to the previously mentioned farm in Cedar Bluffs. We always referred to this as the “first” farm, simple and not a very inventive name. Sometimes the simple and short description is all that is needed. It would be a few years later when another move would take us back into Fremont. For now Cedar Bluffs, chickens, a cow or two and a horse named Eagle would be our lives. It would be a farm where a growing family had room to grow, even if there was no indoor bathroom just yet.

It was on this farm that I first and last knew of my Grandpa Gale. It was also this farm where I lost all of my front teeth falling from a tractor and hitting the receiving hitch. I truly don’t remember that event. I believe sometimes we have an amazing ability to block out things in our mind. How I came to be up on that tractor and why I fell is unknown. The curiosity of a young boy, on the farm trying to discover everything around him is my best guess. It happened and down I went with a gruesome sound and picture of painful injury. I won’t describe how it was recounted to me as your imagination can certainly fill that void.

I can imagine though that my father would have been furious with me for playing on the tractor. But as the story gets recalled, my father was frantic to get me into the doctor’s office. As a father myself, I can feel the angst and worry that comes from seeing your child injured and in pain. He placed his hand over my face, holding back the teeth and bleeding mouth, and rushing me to see the doctor in Fremont. This was a different place and time. There would be no waiting for an ambulance as we jumped into the car and sped off down the road.

It is love that drives you to carry the worry. It is love that drives you at seemingly incredible speed towards a doctor’s office. It is love pure and simple. My father has that kind of love for us which goes unspoken many times. God is the same way if you think about it. He shows his love through actions as opposed to saying it out loud to us...

Table of contents

• Love Is
• Foreword
• Preface
• Introduction
• Chapter 1: If I Speak
• Chapter 2: Love Is
• Chapter 3: We Know
• Chapter 4: What Remains
• Epilogue