Now is our time to step up

Matt Pearl

My maternal grandfather, Ken Clevenger, was a chiropractor for over 30 years.

He practiced the art of back-cracking in Cameron for the duration of his career, and I have run into many folks who received an adjustment from the man I called Grandpa.

He passed away Saturday night. I sat at his bedside as his life ended, the first time I had witnessed death firsthand in such a way.

I am a person of faith — the full details of which I will keep personal, for I hold them dear — so I was saddened, but not devastated.

Life’s natural end is death, and Grandpa’s legacy extended far beyond treating patients on a chiropractic table.

He was a minister, a woodworker, a singer, and a publisher. He and Grandma were married 65 years.

I don’t know much, but I can tell you this for certain: the folks I’ve met who can make it past 40 or 50 years could usually make it to 1,000 if their lifespans would allow.

Death parted my grandparents Saturday, the only force that seemed able to do so.

It would be self-indulgent for me to spend my entire space here overstating the virtue of a man that few of you knew. But what he taught me, what he showed me during his life are relevant truths that all of us should try to grasp during our allotted time on earth.

He taught me to measure twice and cut once.

He was irritatingly thorough in his shop.

Measure, remeasure, cut, put away the saw, vacuum up the dust, dump the shop vac, then move on.

It was the only woodworking shop I’ve ever seen that had floors clean enough that a person could safely eat off of them.

Detail was his forte.

Grandpa’s pace was slow, his manner, calm.

Though I’m sure in youth he had the hot-bloodedness that plagues the male gender, by his more mature years, he had mellowed to the demeanor of a kindly old sage.

He would call congregation members out by name when he preached — to keep them awake and listening, and to make sure each was being thoroughly instructed in the Lord’s word.

There is lacking in me, and so many of my generation, the patience to have a care for those details of life.

Grandpa knew what he wanted things to be, then endeavored to make his visions reality.

Grandma shined his black shoes to a mirrored finish, starched his white shirt collars to the consistency of poster board, and ironed everything the man ever wore — he knew just how he needed to look.

The age of the polished, perfectly groomed gentleman might be fading — or even faded. I find myself avoiding my razor whenever possible, and while I’m pretty sure we own an ironing board, I have never used it firsthand.

I will miss him.

I will miss many things he represented that I find to be deficient in my own character. It’s nice to have people close to us who thrive where we fail: they can pick up our messes from time to time. Grandpa has been freed from the obligation of cleaning up after me.

My resolution to myself following his passing is simple.

I will remember the parts of him that the world should retain, and I will give those traits life through my actions.

We all must do this: we must hold dear the values of the generations past, assimilating their virtues into our own actions and leaving their mistakes behind.

Grandpa has gone to a better home, but you and I remain.

Let’s make it count.