I was a funeral director this past week … for my grandpa Marvin. It was hard, but it was good. I was able to serve my family, grieve to a degree, honor my elders, and speak the truth. The rest of this blog entry is the actual text of the message … oh, did I mention that I was the preacher, too? LOL. I’ve posted it here for everyone … honoring a marine, loving my grandpa, speaking the truth as I know it. Enjoy…

The life of Marvin Andrew Brandt came to an end this week at the glorious age of 89.

Marvin was born on May 30, 1920, in Gregory, South Dakota.  He was the oldest child of a large family and learned the value of hard work firsthand from parents who diligently provided, even during the scarcity and uncertainty of times like the Great Depression.  His mother warmed her sleeping children by fastening their bed covers tightly with clothespins; his father salvaged corncobs for use as firewood in the kitchen stove that provided heat for the whole house.  As he grew older, Marvin often spoke of these early years.  Maybe he saw them as a sample of the many experiences that had worked together to forge the man who came to be Marvin Andrew Brandt.  Though I could go on and on about the man, in the interest of time and with respect for your own anticipation of lunch, I’ll have to sum him up just a little.  Would that be okay with you?

It seems to me that the simplest way to do that would be to start with the three most prominent things that come to mind when I stop and think of him: (1) heart, (2) mind, and (3) hands.  Grandpa Marvin had a heart of deep care, a mind of thrifty and creative ingenuity, and hands of deep wounds and callouses that worked tirelessly.

So, at Grandma Lynn’s request, and with permission of his surviving siblings and extended family in attendance here, I’m offering to you today (1) a memorial eulogy, (2) an honorable tribute, and (3) a personal testimony.  Are you ready?

Marvin learned by example and experience; he taught similarly.  His younger siblings, nieces, and nephews remember him fondly as a sort of father-figure who might take them along for hours in his truck, quietly listening and patiently responding to the beautiful chatter and infinite inquiries of a beloved child.  His siblings learned much from their tall and lanky brother, who came to personify the idea of time and energy well spent.  Around age 17 Marvin left home; he joined the United States Marine Corps during a period of growing global tension and subsequently, the second world war.

Marvin was a man of action, but he was also a man of perseverance and patience; character traits like these are not won easily, and his tattooed arms only hinted at the seasons he endured and the battles he survived as Marine.  A warning: what follows may sound like a history channel documentary to some, but to my grandpa, no television program could compete with his vivid memories as a member of the Fighting Sixth Marines.

First to serve in WWII, the Regiment was secretly dispatched from California and sailed through the Panama Canal on its way to defend … … … Iceland.  “What’s that,” you say? Yes, you heard me right, “Iceland.”  The Sixth was sent to Iceland in order to protect the eastern mainland from the frightening possibility of losing the island in a surprise German attack.  Why would the Germans want Iceland? I wondered that too.  Well, if you were a European enemy of the United States, and if you were eager to attack our eastern seaboard, and if your reach was limited a little by the technology of the day, then you would probably think Iceland is perfectly positioned to be a staging site for your big attack.  At least that’s what I’ve read.

Anyhow, the Fighting Sixth and my Grandpa Marvin were deployed to protect Iceland before the US was officially involved in WWII.  Now Marvin loved the Marines; but to be polite, we’ll just say that he didn’t speak fondly of the long arctic winter nights he endured there.  Their seemingly-endless waiting was compounded, of course, when his regiment learned that the bulk of the 2nd Marine Division had moved as a quick response to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.  Marvin and the Sixth was stuck in Iceland while the battle was being waged violently by their fellow Marines halfway around the world on the Pacific Front.

Finally, on March 25, 1941, after a moment’s pause in New York City, the “Polar Bear” Sixth Regiment returned to its home in San Diego as a part of the 2nd Marine Division.  From there the Sixth began its journey from the cold of the northeast to the heat of South Pacific.  Yes, he saw New Zealand, and yes, he eventually saw Hawaii, but in-between, Marvin Andrew Brandt was one of the many WWII veterans who gave freely of themselves to secure the many freedoms we know and enjoy today.  Their sacrifices … their collective sacrifice on the island beachheads created a human swarm whose living tide flowed slowly forward, even as its ebb turned red with the blood of their lives.

Today’s Marines can proudly give you a history lesson about the tradition of the corps’ forward command, “Follow Me.” For the young men of the Fighting Sixth, their response to the “Follow Me” command quickly degraded from the neat formations they had practiced again and again into the survival of real battle.  Their experiences crawling and scrapping and fighting in hand-to-hand combat created their regiment’s own motto, “Keep Moving!”  And keep moving they did.  You probably know the names: Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Saipan, Tinian, and Okinawa.  Marvin referred to it softly as, “the long march to Tokyo.”  He returned home with a Purple Heart for injuries sustained in the Invasion of Saipan and eventually found his place back with family.

Love and care came in the form of Miss Pauline Williams, or Polly, as she was commonly called. Fond of nicknames, he affectionately referred to her as “schoolteacher.” Though the name wasn’t exactly creative, it was accurate; she was the young, kind, and commanding school teacher who first caught his attention and enjoyed his affections. Married in 1953, they celebrated 36 years together until she lost her own battle against a variety of medical complications.

Work came in the form of a partnership with his older brother Willard in a wheat harvest business. Later, Marvin and Polly founded a crane operating business they built together with his sister, Phyllis.  Many residents of the greater Denver area owe them thanks for raising the roofs of the sturdy homes they still enjoy.  Even today you can look through Marvin’s vehicle maintenance records and address books to see examples of the meticulous attention to detail, the ongoing maintenance, and the perpetual readiness for action that he’d learned back in the dome-shaped barracks on the Kollafjordur of Iceland. After retiring, Marvin traveled more earnestly, with south Texas becoming one of his regular stops along the way.

In 1990 Marvin met and won Mary Lynn Bell, a fellow snowbird and seasonal resident of Victoria, Texas.  Introduced by a mutual neighbor, he would ride his bike ride to meet her for early morning walks in the warm South Texas sunshine.  His wide grin, quiet conversation, and old-school-style of courting did win her heart, even despite the unfashionably short style of his exercise gear; long legs, short shorts.  On April 7, 2010, they would have celebrated their 20th wedding anniversary.  And so continued love … and care.

Combining their lives required splitting their time between the winter getaway of Victoria, Texas, with his home outside of Denver, Colorado, and hers just down the road in Brownfield, Texas.  Finally they moved to a new place of their own here in Lubbock, Texas.  They didn’t stay long in any one place, though.  Marvin was famous for beginning travel in one of two ways. Either he’d provide a 30-minute warning to pack and roll out … and my Grandma laughs.  His other method was to map out a well-planned departure … but these were always scheduled to begin somewhere around 3am.  Again we see his military background demanding continual readiness, lightning-quick response times, and always, “Keep moving.”  Their traveling generally began as an overnight excursion for three simple reasons.  First, he was convinced he could save fuel costs by traveling in the cooler evening temperatures. I’m not sure if it’s scientific, but he was convinced.  Second, he enjoyed the lighter highway traffic of the early morning.  Third, a perpetually and painfully early riser, Marvin relished welcoming the sunrise while en route to each new destination.

Wherever they lay their heads, one thing can be said of Marvin: his hands were never idle.  He spent his hours gardening, welding, tinkering, reading, and frequently remodeling or recycling something that you and I might value as worthless.  His own creative eye and talented hands would eventually transform it into an artful toy, creative conversation piece, or repurposed tool.  Fountains, wind chimes, whirly-ma-gigs, thingy-ma-boppers, and nifty little figurines are just a few of his imaginative, whimsical, and generally still functional creations.  I’ll never forget when he bought a charter bus from the athletic department of Iowa State University; he subsequently renovated it inch by inch into a pretty swanky RV. I was impressed anyhow; he sold the seats to Brownfield ISD so they could update the bus for their own athletic teams.  Thrifty mind.  Busy hands.

And so life continued: Brandt Round-Robin Phone Calls and Family Reunions, trips, gardens, seasons, and the occasional new truck or RV.  His grandkids added great grandkids to his lap: four, five, recently this Christmas, six … and more as they would have him. Grandpa Marvin’s lap was continually full, and he loved it.  He moved less and less, not by choice of course; in October of 2007, illness had come calling, and Leukemia was its name.  The cancer of the blood was a fierce opponent, and they gave him very little chance of living even a year … if he survived the painful and debilitating chemotherapy.  My grandpa was a fighter though … didn’t you hear?  He turned a dim prognosis into 2½ good years, as best he could.  The picture in your bulletin is from almost exactly one year ago when we gathered to celebrate my grandma’s 80th birthday.  Oops, I wasn’t supposed to say that last part.  Sorry, Grandma Lynn.  I chuckle to remember how much he hated the walker, but his mobility required it, so it was tolerated.  Tolerated until he he discovered his great granddaughters enjoyed riding along as he moved from room to room; then, it became his tool for amusing the little ones.

Much could be said about the challenges of these past few years; and yes, it was physically a demise.  In other ways, it was a new birth.  I’ll never forget the first time he kissed my cheek and said, “I love you, young man.” Almost too surprised to respond coherently, I said, “I love you, too … um, old man.”  He just laughed.  Deep care. Beautiful mind.  Tireless hands.

Eight days ago was our last conversation, he and I.  We were in the emergency room, and I was sure it was over.  He was unconscious, feverishly hot, and breathing too quickly.  Almost too loudly it came out, “I love you old man.”  And my keep-moving, follow-me, semper fidelis (always faithful) grandpa did what he always did … he used every bit of strength he had to squeeze the heck out of my hand.

Simply and peacefully, Marvin Andrew Brandt received his final discharge from active duty as husband, brother, and grandpa on February 2, 2010, at Covenant Medical Center in Lubbock, Texas.

Marvin is survived by his faithful and caring wife, my Grandma Lynn Brandt; his brother and friend, Willard, of Parker, Colorado; his sister and faithful phone-caller, Zelda Johnson, of Arlington, Texas; the beloved baby sister he practically raised, Linda Moritz, of Las Vegas, Nevada; and an assortment of in-laws, cousins, and extended Brandt nieces, nephews, and cousins.  And us, of course, the Barron family.  How do we fit in this picture?  That’s a pretty good question.

Even now I question myself a bit … why am I here?  The answer is simple.  I am here because Marvin Andrew Brandt has been my grandfather for 20 years; that’s longer than any other grandfather I can remember.  I’ve loved them all, but I knew him the best.  While it’s true that we weren’t his biological family, I’m honored today to remember my Grandpa Marvin, or “Marvin the Turble (Terrible)” as I liked to call him.  “Terrible” was his standard response when you asked how he was doing or how he’d been.  If he ever said, “Fine,” or, “Pretty good,” you knew something was wrong.  “Terrible,” on the other hand, meant that everything was good, and it made him seem pretty gruff.

And he was, actually, pretty gruff when we first met him, but my little sister didn’t know that.  He was a little awkward with our huggy and chatty ways, as are most people who meet my family, but we were up for the challenge.  We took the beachhead and swarmed his lap to sit and talk and count to nine on his remaining fingers and ask about tattoos and tulips and bus renovations.  You know, I wasn’t sure he liked it for the longest time, and then I moved back to Lubbock with my own growing family, and I knew.

“I love you, old man, and I thank you for loving me back … even when I was foolishly too busy, or unprepared, or unskilled, or unsure.  You loved me quietly.  You loved when my kids would jump into your lap, even when weakened by the Leukemia that promised you a fight you couldn’t win.  Against all odds you took on the battle, and in doing so, you won our hearts and affections forever.  Thank you for it all.  A heart of deep care. A mind of thrift and creativity. Wounded but tireless hands.  Thank you.”

Whew!! Okay, so you’ve heard the eulogy, and a tribute with a little testimony mixed in, but if you’ll stick with me for just a little longer, let me finish with the rest of my own true story.  Okay?  Here goes.

You can tell by my emotions that I love Marvin, and I know that I’m not alone.  Even so, let’s remember that he was honest, and in his loving memory, let’s also be honest.  He wasn’t perfect.  He fought bravely, but told me how frightening it was to face the guns at Tarawa and how he cursed the Japs for killing his friends and leaving him wounded at Saipan.  He was a man of action and hard labor, but he was also demanding and grumpy at times.  His trucks could never be stolen and his offer could never be out-bargained because he was shrewd and thrifty with his kill switches and deft with his incredible vehicle negotiations. Sometimes though, he was harsh to deal with and even cheap.  If you knew him well, you’ll know that he valued an honest and straightforward man, and you’ll forgive me for being honest, because I do it in his honor and after his own example.

Today, even while we remember Marvin Andrew Brandt, and while we consider his life as a part of our own grief and loss, I hope we learn from him a little.  I hope we learn a little about hard work, deep care, continual readiness, and personal sacrifice.  I hope we learn, for just a moment, a little about ourselves through his honesty and his imperfections.  I hope that we can consider our own imperfect lives, and maybe we can actually be a little like Marvin: maybe we can dare to long for something more.  I’ve talked today about a good man whose good gifts touched my life deeply.  For the next few minutes I’d like to introduce you to another man whose perfect gift has changed my life forever.

You see, I believe an old saying: “Every good and perfect gift comes from above.”  I know that every good thing that I saw in Marvin Brandt was really a nicely packaged gift from a God who loves perfectly and completely.  I know that Marvin’s commitment to keep moving is good because it looks like the way that Jesus surged forward toward a bloody and terrible criminal execution that he didn’t deserve.  I know that Marvin’s reuse of old things in new and creative ways is good because it follows the example of a good God who chose to continually make all things new instead of unilaterally toss out his beautiful-but-broken creation.

I know that Marvin’s determination to serve his country is only good because it mimics Jesus’ desire to serve his followers.  I know that Marvin’s deep care for others, his tender nurture of little plants, and his artful creation of new beauty where others saw junk … that’s a little glimpse … a shadow … helping me to know how Jesus is.  He is binding up the sick and the weak; he is calling the little children to come and swarm into his arms; he is forgiving the liars and cheats and adulterers and disloyal and unfriendly and self-absorbed and foolish people in the world … people like me.

I love Marvin Brandt for the man that he was, but I love him most of all because his life points me to trust in the care, restoration, and infinite love of a God who is big enough to love … even me.  Jesus rescues me by his sacrifice; he nurtures me in deep care.  His spirit is continually hard at work, growing me into the man he has imagined before the world was created.  He works so I might become mature, wise, and more like him, and he waits patiently, like a Marine in a dark Icelandic winter with his weapon at the ready. He is ready for every moment I yield and serve and give; in those moments his life burns bright in me as a single flame of light in whatever dark place or time, against the darkest of enemies.

I hope you hear my words today and love Marvin Andrew Brandt a little more than you did when you came in.  But even more, I hope you hear God’s Word today and lay down your hardest work.  Honestly, can’t we see that our most generous acts of kindness are simply not enough?  Truly, even our most painful sacrifices are not as selfless as they appear, are they? Living with other humans is work; loving other humans is hard work.  And it seems that this work is never done.  In contrast, Jesus says, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”  I am thankful that Marvin has rest from his long years of toil and readiness, and I know that the rest of death will come for us all, maybe soon, or maybe many years down the road.  After all, we’re not guaranteed anything more than the breath our lungs hold this moment.  Something Grandpa Marvin taught me was, when you’re really wounded, you finally realize how much you need to be rescued.

I am really wounded, and I need a really, really big rescue.  And that is exactly what I’ve gotten.  Let me break it down:

• A really, really big God, for his own glory (which he deserves), gave up his rightful place on a throne and became a baby.  In this act, I know what it is to be a man, to give up my authority and love sacrificially.
• This baby learned and grew into a man who loved perfectly … in a world that was anything but kind.  In this act, I am made more aware of my own imperfection; and I see that it is my action, and often, my inaction, that causes and promotes injustice and poverty and hurt, from my doorstep to the far corners of the earth.
• The perfect man, a judge, a warrior, and a king, determined to pay in his own blood in an act of mercy to me where I am spared from the punishment I know I deserve.  This act gives me great relief.
• And if it weren’t enough, this One, this God, then offered me more … grace.  I am amazed by such a gift, to know and walk with this perfect one, both here, and after the grave comes calling.
• He should call me slave, but instead he calls me a son.  I can’t help but fall on my face when I begin to realize the glory of his gracious love.

I hope you know this God.  I hope you’ve submitted your best efforts to him and exchanged them for the free gift of his mercy, grace, and adoption.  I hope you know it’s nothing you deserve, and that is free for you to accept.  I hope you can join me on the floor sometime, falling together as we understand just a little more how deep and long and high and wide is the love of Christ.

• If you do know him and trust him to rescue you the way I do, then we can celebrate together as two who share a precious truth that words can’t express.
• If you don’t, I hope you’ll demand it of me, or of others who have been rescued like me.  We will do our very best to share that truth with you.  We’ll try to use words, and we’ll try to use our lives, and we will probably mess it up a little (or a lot) along the way, but I hope you’ll continue to push and shove forward to get a taste of this beautiful thing called grace.

Thank you for your time today.  Thank you for remembering the life of Marvin Andrew Brandt.  Thank you for offering your time as a tribute in his honor.  Thank you for respecting and loving his family through the grief of his death.  Most of all, thank you for listening to his grandson as I’ve stood here, emotional and imperfect, and tried to offer the truth.  It is this: true hope is found only in the deep care, beautiful mind, and tireless work of Jesus, and we know it through his grace.

Thank you for your time.

Eulogy – JRB for Marvin A. Brandt