I was incredibly young when my Grandma Betker died. So young that I don’t have any memories of her, but I’m reassured to know that I have been held by her. I met her at a time when holding my head straight was a wobbly and uneasy endeavour. Her visage blurred through my still developing eyes. So young that forming the complex phrase of “momma” was a distant goal. I was about 2 years old.
It wasn’t until a few years later that my memories truly started. I was still a ‘young buck’ and didn’t fully realize the gravity of the moment when Grandpa Betker and I walked up to the cemetery to lay roses on my grandma's grave. I tugged at his pant legs in an eager rush to leave. I counted the stones on the wall as I waited for my grandfather to finish his prayers.
Truth be told, I was a youth, and I’m still not sure this memory is true or if it was manufactured by my brain in an attempt to feel closer to my grandmother.
Her importance to him was lost on me then. But I understand now.
I believe, largely because of my grandfather, that when someone loves you as unconditionally as he did their effect on your life is often subtle. It’s a humble kind of love that permeates every action we take. It’s a love that knows when forgiveness is needed and a love that fights to serve you breakfast until his very last day on this earth. A love that he and I believe grew from our lord Jesus.
I feel lucky to have known my grandfather for almost 30 years and it wasn’t until I was faced with his mortality that I realized his full impact on my life.
For instance, one of the simple but impactful memories was the time my mom sent my brother Graeme and I to live with grandpa for the summer. To “teach us discipline”. The bus ride was long and felt like it stopped in every small town between Calgary and Fort MacLeod. It then stopped at every small town from Fort Macleod to Cranbrook.
When we got into Cranbrook, grandpa was waiting by his racing green Pontiac Grand Prix and drove us into Kimberley. We drove through the forest and up the small hill that led to the yellow and brown house that punctuated our summer holidays as kids. The lawn was always covered in immaculate green grass, the flowers were in perpetual bloom, and the garden burst with vegetables.
Then the work started.
We peeled potatoes, opened snap peas, washed the lettuce and carrots. We then watched patiently (or as patiently as possible) as our grandfather prepared the rest. An assortment of buns, deli meats, chips, and the ever present cottage cheese. All arranged on the table next to the carefully sliced veggies.
These were the staples of a Grandpa Betker lunch.
We helped in the garden and helped with the lawn. Once all that was done we’d earned a trip down to the platzl to wander the streets. If we were lucky we’d get to see Happy Hanz pop out of a clock and sing a song.
In the heat of the summer, the true treat came after our chores when we would go down to the outdoor swimming pool and play in the water. While we splashed around we were always carefully watched by my grandpa from the sidelines. He seemed satisfied and happy to observe from a comfortable chair and let us tempt fate in the gentle waves.
It's important to note that back at home, in Calgary, my brothers and I lived modern lives with video games and Saturday morning cartoons. But in Kimberley, we were sent back to a time where we could watch the news, read a newspaper, or go outside. These were not the typical activities my brothers and I would associate with our daily lives.
None of these things had Mario in them. Not even Sonic. The closest we’d get is when we could sneak away to the basement and rifle through old Archie comics and National Geographic magazines. That felt like treading on uneven waters. It felt dangerous.
That summer often feels like the true start of my grandfather’s influence.
My grandpa’s strength is hard to define in one story, but a few Christmas’ ago, grandpa came to visit while my mom and step dad were away. It was just grandpa and I for a week. After my mom had left grandpa told me how his leg was swelling up and he felt like he should get it looked at. But since he didn’t want to worry my mom, he had waited until she left to say anything.
He wanted to make sure it was nothing before telling her. No need to worry her for nothing (a practice I have seemingly taken on).
We spent the next few days going to various walk in clinics to get numerous tests done. We eventually ended up at the Foothills Hospital on Christmas day (not before we had finished Christmas dinner with my brother’s family, it would be rude to not attend after getting an invite). We sat quietly in the waiting room and managed to get a bed within a reasonable amount of time.
Grandpa was obviously uncomfortable and his leg wasn’t feeling great. However, I suspect it was the assault of attention that made him uneasy. Throughout the pain and the dedicated care of the medical staff, he consistently went out of his way to make sure the nurses and doctors felt like they were the most important people in the room. At one point he offered up his bed (only half in jest) to the nurse who had been working for 11 hours.
In the midst of a busy ER, that was his strength, he wouldn’t let cancer get in the way of his love for people and for God. He always found a way to make others comfortable.
I tell you these stories because I feel they encapsulate the ideas he instilled in me. While I didn’t know my grandmother, my grandpa loved her unconditionally. I know this not because I’m told every time I went to see him; I know this because his love for her was ever present. To know my grandpa was to know my grandma.
To my grandpa, love is forgiving and humble. It doesn’t boast, but allows actions to speak louder than words. Most importantly, love doesn’t continue unless you’re willing to do the work. He did this for my grandma, he did this for his family, for his friends, and above all for God’s glory.
For my grandpa, you can’t have green grass without water, a garden without seeds, and flowers without care. If you love someone, you have to be willing to put in the work to show that they’re important and loved. I find this is easy to forget, because love is such a powerful emotion that I feel overwhelmed when it’s present, and complacent when it’s gone.
No matter what he did in life, be it hockey, working in an office, or making Sunday lunch and cracking open a fresh cottage cheese; he did it because he loved those around him and wanted to keep them at his side.
He cherished what he had and laid roses for the one’s he lost.
I ask that we all remember my grandpa by honouring those we love with a humble and honest love. Let it saturate those around you so it flows over into the world at large. My grandpa did everything he could to show the world how much he loved God’s people and God’s word. He wanted the world to know how the Lord changed his life and made him into the strong, compassionate, and loving person that he was. But he would never say as much, because that would draw attention to himself.
It’s up to each and every one of us to watch and listen for the humble and honest love that fights for us. Works for us. Prays for us. Cries with us. It’s up to us to fight complacency and look out for the little things that give us hope and joy.
God is good, because my grandpa is finally at peace. He fought a hard battle that showed me how much he loved me and how much he loved God. It was a battle that showed me how happy and at peace God helped him become. All of this happens when we’re willing to trust our Lord, love hard, and put in the work to maintain that love.
“I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see him with my own eyes. I - and not another, how my heart yearns within me.” Job 19, 25-27.