My Rock of Ages Moment
Illustration
Stories
I will put you in a cleft of the rock, and I will cover you with my hand... (v. 22)
My grandfather, James Archie Sumwalt, died over sixty years ago in March of 1961. It was by all appearances an ordinary winter day. My brothers and I were sledding under the yard light just after dusk on the small hill between the house and the barn. Mom and sister were in the kitchen fixing supper. We could tell something was wrong the moment Dad got out of the car. His shoulders sagged and there was no light in his eyes. “Daddy’s gone,” was all he said, his voice breaking and his eyes filling with tears, as he passed us on the way to the house.
Two words and my whole ten-year old's world collapsed. Death had come home for the first time in my life. I had seen cows die, had buried favorite dogs and cats and attended the funerals of relatives and neighbors, but I had never lost someone I couldn’t imagine living without.
Grandpa was a carpenter/farmer. He had just retired from building apartment buildings in Madison. They had moved back to their house in Loyd, three quarters of a mile down the road from our farm. He was going to help Dad remodel the kitchen. We were to have new cupboards and a real kitchen counter. “I’ll have time to take you fishing now,” he had said to us boys. There was also talk of rabbit and squirrel hunting.
I’ll never forget that awful day or the grief that overwhelmed all of us in our big extended family, fourteen uncles and aunts, and thirty-two grandchildren. We were all in shock. Grandpa was just 67. I had never seen my strong Dad so vulnerable and would not see him like that again until I sat with him as he lay dying 37 years later.
I will never forget the family gathering at Grandma's to make plans for the funeral. The grownups talked about Grandpa's last hours in the hospital. The Rev. Miss Mattie Richardson came to pray with us. She was a tall woman, and I remember her putting her long arms around all of us, and praying for comfort in that old fashioned preacher’s voice that made one believe she was speaking directly to God.
The raw grief stayed with me for a long time, but one memory has sustained me all these years. A quartette of preachers sang “Rock of Ages Cleft for Me” at the funeral at the Loyd Evangelical United Brethren Church. Guy Kintz, Selo Gutknecht, Kenneth Brice and Lester Matthew’s sweet harmony touched something deep in my soul.
To this day, when we sing “Rock of Ages,” I am taken back to that moment in time. My voice cracks and my eyes well up. But my heart is comforted because over the years the rock has cleft for me again and again.
My grandfather, James Archie Sumwalt, died over sixty years ago in March of 1961. It was by all appearances an ordinary winter day. My brothers and I were sledding under the yard light just after dusk on the small hill between the house and the barn. Mom and sister were in the kitchen fixing supper. We could tell something was wrong the moment Dad got out of the car. His shoulders sagged and there was no light in his eyes. “Daddy’s gone,” was all he said, his voice breaking and his eyes filling with tears, as he passed us on the way to the house.
Two words and my whole ten-year old's world collapsed. Death had come home for the first time in my life. I had seen cows die, had buried favorite dogs and cats and attended the funerals of relatives and neighbors, but I had never lost someone I couldn’t imagine living without.
Grandpa was a carpenter/farmer. He had just retired from building apartment buildings in Madison. They had moved back to their house in Loyd, three quarters of a mile down the road from our farm. He was going to help Dad remodel the kitchen. We were to have new cupboards and a real kitchen counter. “I’ll have time to take you fishing now,” he had said to us boys. There was also talk of rabbit and squirrel hunting.
I’ll never forget that awful day or the grief that overwhelmed all of us in our big extended family, fourteen uncles and aunts, and thirty-two grandchildren. We were all in shock. Grandpa was just 67. I had never seen my strong Dad so vulnerable and would not see him like that again until I sat with him as he lay dying 37 years later.
I will never forget the family gathering at Grandma's to make plans for the funeral. The grownups talked about Grandpa's last hours in the hospital. The Rev. Miss Mattie Richardson came to pray with us. She was a tall woman, and I remember her putting her long arms around all of us, and praying for comfort in that old fashioned preacher’s voice that made one believe she was speaking directly to God.
The raw grief stayed with me for a long time, but one memory has sustained me all these years. A quartette of preachers sang “Rock of Ages Cleft for Me” at the funeral at the Loyd Evangelical United Brethren Church. Guy Kintz, Selo Gutknecht, Kenneth Brice and Lester Matthew’s sweet harmony touched something deep in my soul.
To this day, when we sing “Rock of Ages,” I am taken back to that moment in time. My voice cracks and my eyes well up. But my heart is comforted because over the years the rock has cleft for me again and again.
