In keeping with our storytelling theme, here is another gem written by my father. Enjoy!
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| Heinrich Christensen with his grandson, Steven Christensen |
The Angels Danced
by
Steve Christensen
We never knew much about his youth.
By the medals he kept with his papers we found that he had been decorated for
bravery on more than one occasion during the Great War. And from the yellowed
newspaper clippings we saw that he had once been a professional boxer. But even
from my earliest memories he had always been a quiet and gentle man, at peace
with himself and with God.
He had immigrated to the United States during the
depression, worked hard, raised a family, and managed to save enough over the
years to ensure that he would never be a “burden” on anyone.
I remember trying to impress him when I was in my late
teens. I had been working out with weights and thought that I was fairly strong.
Grandpa was over seventy the first (and last) time I tried to “crush his hand”
with my powerful grip. He looked surprised, smiled, and squeezed in return.
He brought me to my knees.
Now in his nineties, Grandpa was obviously still in good
shape. He and Grandma owed a trailer in a quiet park in Buellton, California; about
200 miles from their nearest children. He kept up their trailer and little yard
and walked two to four miles every day.
Grandpa had a lifetime of accumulated wisdom. Though never
pushy, he was usually willing to share it; especially if we went with him for
one of his “short” walks. “Everything in moderation,” he would counsel his great-granddaughter.
“A little wine is OK; a glass or two. But don’t keep drinking until you are
senseless, or it will take control of you. Eat until you are no longer hungry;
but then stop. And exercise is good. Walking, breathing the fresh air, is good
for you: but don’t run too much. It is hard on your body and hurts your joints.”
His children and grandchildren all led busy lives, and over
the years none of us really visited as often as we wished. So none of us were
there to see how rapidly his health was failing that spring. We were all
surprised when we got the phone call. “Your Grandfather is in the hospital,”
they said. “He collapsed while mowing his yard. I think he needs you.”
He did. Grandpa had lost 40 pounds in less than six months.
He was now a virtual shell of the man who had once fought in Madison Square
Garden, and he and Grandma could no longer function by themselves.
I helped my Mom and Dad fixed up their home to accommodate
them. We installed hand rails in the bedroom, down the hall, and the bathroom.
We moved them in, encouraged them, assured them that everything was fine.
Grandpa just shook his head, smiled and asked what the fuss
was about. “I’m just old!” he gently told us. “It’s time for me to go home.”
At first, we didn’t understand. My Mom would explain over
and over that this was their home now,
that he and Grandma had to stay with her and Dad. Grandpa would listen, smile, and
shake his head softly.
Time passed quickly that spring. Grandpa didn’t have any
appetite anymore, and gradually we all came to understand what he meant when he
said that it was time for him to go home. He was so much at peace about it…
We were not though, so we cajoled, and insisted; and he
smiled and ate a little, just to humor us. But he wanted to go home. He wasn’t
really with us anymore, not completely.
Grandpa liked the overstuffed armchair beside the window. He
spent hours at a time, just sitting there with his eyes closed. We thought that
he was sleeping, but he always seemed to be aware of what was happening around
him. One day my mother asked him what he was thinking about. He opened his eyes
and said, “I’m praying,” then smiled and closed them again.
Soon after that, when sitting next to the window, he called
my mom over and pointed at the sky. “Look… angels…” He could see them there,
dancing in the clouds, and he let us know that they were waiting for him.
Grandpa still loved to share with us. “God,” he told my
daughter, “He knows our real name. And He has a name for you.” Turning to my
mother, my wife, and myself he continued, “and a name for you… and you… and you.” My typically mischievous three-year
old son was there. With gentle authority that even captured my son’s attention,
Grandpa turned to him and announced, “and He even has a name for you!” Then he closed his eyes and silently
returned to prayer.
Spring turned to summer, and Grandpa’s health continued to
fail. Even with the handrails he had difficulty getting around, especially at
night. Sometimes he would fall down and be unable to get up by himself, so my
father installed motion detectors. He pointed them a little high, so that a
light would switch on in my parent’s room if my Grandpa or Grandma got up out
of bed.
One beautiful, warm summer morning, Grandpa was sitting out
on the redwood deck, praying. He was obviously completely at peace. My mother
was with him, and after a while asked if he wanted to go rest.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m ready to rest. But you are not ready…”
Looking at her, he gently continued, “God will give you strength to let me
rest.”
God did give her strength, for through her tears she was
able to reply, “Dad, I think we’re almost strong enough… If you want to go it’s
OK.”
A few nights later, as my brother helped him get to bed
Grandpa was so excited he couldn’t even speak. With quick motions he pointed to
the window.
“You want the curtains open?” my brother asked.
An affirmative nod.
As the curtains opened my grandfather looked intently
outside, at the sky.
“What do you see, Grandpa? Do you see angels?”
Another nod.
Somewhat calmed, but still not speaking, Grandpa pointed to
himself, then pointed up, out the window.
My brother agreed with a loving laugh. “Yes, Grandpa,
someday you will be going to heaven.”
With a sigh, and a contented smile on his face, Grandpa lay
back, still gazing out the window.
That night the little light in my parent’s room flickered twice,
as if it could almost, but not quite, see something cross, then cross again,
the upper part of Grandpa’s room. It wasn’t supposed to do that, so my father went
to check on him.
He was still lying in his bed, and his face was a reflection
of unspeakable peace. His earthly shell was even still warm. But Grandpa wasn’t
there anymore. Someone had come and had taken him home.
And the angels danced.
