Everyone knows how I feel about the late Rev. Stacy Groscup. He had a huge impact on my life and career. Stacy felt the sun rose and sat on his precious little redheaded grand daughter Shawna. His eyes twinkled when he spoke of her.
Here is something she shared recently she wrote about her grandpa:
The little things I miss...
The fragrant, grittiness of Lava Soap. The greenish, tarnished residue of copper bracelets in the soap dish after a long, exhausting but fulfilling day of blessings, enlightenment, prayers, archery and wisdom.
The unmistakable crunch of gravel in the driveway after an entire day of waiting for his arrival. His ever-jovial, jolly, optimistic demeanor even after the most trying of days. His undying love, hope and faith, for faith, even the size of a mustard seed, grew to immense, contagious proportions.
The unceremonious transition from white collar to blue, comfy sweats. The "practice naps" before a succulent supper of venison, cheesey grit casserole and brussell sprouts.
The sweet, pungent aroma of cherry-vanilla pipe tobacco, never inhaled but always spiritually intoxicating. The crisp evenings spent shooting judoheads at colorful fall leaves or enjoying an educational program on tv. Prayers and Bible stories before bedtime and always hugs and kisses.
The late-night phone call. The sharp, clean whiff of Aqua Velva aftershave. The quiet rustlings of a soul, eager to aid another soul into the devine Kingdom.
A whisper. A swish. The soft tread of carpet-muffled footsteps in the hallway. The the barely audible creak of the floorboards. The narrow beam of light flooding in through my cracked bedroom door. The one-lidded crack of my eye and pretending to be fast asleep when my Granddad peeked in to check on me before departing again for the night to comfort those in need.
Gazing out the window to catch a glimpse of taillights zooming off into the night. Lying awake for as long as I could stand, once more awaiting the crunch of gravel that signaled his return.
Sleep was always triumphant but not since has a single night passed that I haven't longed to hear that gravel crunch, the ghostly apparition of the blue Ford Bronco barrelling down the drive, those eager headlights anxious to make it home once again.
By Shawna Groscup
•••••••••••••••••••
Wasn't that a great tribute?
Frank