Eulogy for my Grandpa

James Allen Kyte - August 26, 1929 - May 3, 2022

God is good all the time—and all the time, God is good.

And pray for rain.

I’ve always felt that wherever Grandma and Grandpa are, that is home. Even more so, now.

Grandpa knew the Lord. But his faith wasn’t expressed through lots of words or in-depth theology—Grandad really wasn’t interested in those things. No, his faith was shown through helping other people and through being honest and kind. He believed that he was called to love and obey the Lord and to love his neighbor as himself.

If I had to summarize Grandpa in one word, that word would be joy—but the word, ornery would be a close second. Grandad always had something going. He was always cutting up or pulling some joke on someone. He and his friends (usually his brothers-in-law) had extravagant, long-running jokes that they would play, and I’m told their nephews were often the recipients of this attention. Pranking isn’t quite the right word; that might be harsh or mean, and that is something Grandpa wasn’t. He just would just lightly push people’s buttons or get the ball rolling somehow, then enjoy the ensuing hilarity.

Grandpa loved to laugh. From a very young age, my sister and I would save all the best jokes we heard to tell grandpa so he could share them at the coffee shop. Every day, without fail, Grandpa would go to the coffeeshop, which went through several location changes—Tastee Freeze, Sands’ Motel, Portales Hardware, McDonalds—and then for the past several years, he would go twice a day. It was the highlight of my visit and a massive privilege the few times that I was allowed, as a small child, to accompany him to this sacred ritual (which in my own mind thought of as Grandpa’s “Brain Trust.”). This group was comprised of the best of men from many walks of life, but I believe all of them could fix anything—just like Grandad.

Grandad really could fix anything. From windmills to refrigerators to trucks—or even miserable situations, monotonous chores, or the endless eastern New Mexico wind; he could fix it or find the joy in it. He often told me that he was such a great kite-builder that they decided to call him “Mr. Kyte,” and as a little girl I believed it—because no one could build and fly a kite like Grandpa. We spent many hours together building kites from scraps of dowel rods and twine and trash bags in his garage, and then ripping up grandma’s cleaning rags and turning them into the tail, which always had to be massive to balance whatever monstrous frame we were constructing. No matter how awkward my construction, with Grandpa’s engineering and flight skills, somehow he always got that thing up in the air. He could literally create joy out of a windy day.

He used to let me tag along and help as he was working on things, and now that I have my own little helpers, I realize how much patience and grace that took—he never got out of temper or frustrated with me, no matter how much I impeded his progress. I’m told that when he was growing up on the farm, his dad would hire someone to do a repair one time, and Grandpa was told to watch how he did it, and from then on, Grandad was expected to be able to make the repair on his own—and he could! Grandpa was incredibly gifted with his hands. Thankfully, his teaching style was much kinder than his father’s—he never grew tired of explaining to me the tips and tricks that would make a repair or building project work out right. 

He also taught me to drive. Before I could reach the pedals, he would let me sit on his lap while he drove the tractor and plowed—and at the end of the day, he would point at the field and say, “You did good work out there today, Em! Look how straight your rows are compared to your sister’s!” I glowed with pride and treasured his assessment of my skills, and it wasn’t until years later that I realized he probably told my sister the exact same thing!

He could turn all the work and chores with dryland farming into a fun adventure. From fixing fences to checking on the cows--he loved the critters and he loved the land, and we always depended on the Lord to send the rain. Once when I was probably about eleven, he invited me to come check on the cows after it had snowed a few feet. We drove out the Dora highway and turned at the unplowed dirt road, and he stopped the truck and looked at me. “Do you want to break in the road?” he asked, pointing at the white expanse ahead of me. Words can hardly express the thrill (and terror) of facing the prospect of driving on that untouched snow. I didn’t want to get us stuck and ruin everything, and when I voiced some of that concern, Grandpa simply replied, “Just keep it between the ditches.” (We managed to make it to the farm and home without getting stuck!)

I never did actually wreck in all the times he let me drive—though I did once bump into a tree. I didn’t damage his truck or the tree, but I was devastated that I had failed; surely now, he would never trust me again to drive. But no--he teased and promised he’d never let me forget this near-disaster, but he still had me drive us back home and then, as I recall, he never brought it up again, because he was not one to harbor grudges or hold anything over anyone’s head. He was so kind.

When I got to college, I realized I’d never heard him speak badly of anyone. The worst he’d ever say about somebody was, “He’s a character,” or possibly, “Yep, he’s a little different.” Somehow those assessments communicated enough. His kindness wasn’t exclusive to family, he treated everyone, including some of the bad renters he ended up having occasionally through the years, with generosity and always gave the benefit of the doubt. He truly wanted to help people, and he allowed himself to be put out of money more than once because he would rather err on the side of being generous and helping someone, even when they didn’t deserve it.

Grandad really seemed like he could handle anything. I was so impressed by this quality that when I got married, it took a Kentucky State Trooper to meet my high standard of someone who could “handle” things!

But then, when Grandma died in 2016, the light went out of his life. And less than a year later, before he had a chance to even begin to recover from that, Uncle Mike, his son, was taken from us as well. Grandad was broken.

Since that time, over the past five or six years, we’d see flashes of the old Grandpa—the joy would flicker back—usually when my kids, his great-grands, would do something silly—but it was a hard, dark time. One time I saw a flash of his old joy when I accidentally startled him by getting after my kid by snapping, “James Alan!” I must have really had the “mom voice” down because Grandpa, also James Allen, leapt about two feet in the air and then dissolved into laughter, because, of course, that’s just how his mother (or his wife!) sounded when they were getting after him for something.

Last Christmas, Grandpa got a blood clot and they took him to El Paso for treatment, which was quite successful, but that began the gradual decline of his health. First he lost his gross motor skills, which, for someone who had been so fiercely independent, was extremely hard. He’d been able to drive and live on his own until then, to age 92, so my parents’ came to make an extended visit to take care of him and, as he considered it, for his “recovery.”

Then he lost his fine motor skills. For a craftsman and someone who’d worked with his hands all the time, that was another painful blow. He repeatedly marveled to me that he never imagined his hands would be like that—so useless. It became harder and harder to encourage him as his physical decline continued. All we could do was continue to point him to our gracious God, who we know works all things together for good to those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. Grandpa would agree—intellectually. His mind could acknowledged the truth of all this, but his heart couldn’t follow.

In March, there was a week where my dad had to go home for some of his own medical needs. Dad had been doing the primary physical caretaking of Grandpa, so I came to help out, since my mom wasn’t able to do the heavy lifting it took to get grandad up and down and into his wheelchair or to use his walker. By this time, many of the things that had been too overwhelming for Grandpa to deal with had been taken care of—my Uncle Mike’s murderer had been convicted of some of his other crimes (which meant he would never be out of prison, giving us some measure of closure there), and many business concerns, which Grandpa hadn’t felt up to dealing with for years, were cleared up with my dad’s help.

When my dad called to update us from his doctor visit, it was not good news—stress, presumably from taking care of Grandad, was taking a toll on my dad and putting him in a precarious medical position of his own. This hit my Grandad really hard.  Faced with my dad’s possible health crisis (which thankfully, God worked out to be manageable) my Grandpa was faced with the realization that he couldn’t handle this.

That week, I prayed with my Grandpa more than we had ever prayed together my whole life. I never doubted his salvation, but that week there was a shift—the hurt and bitterness and grief that had consumed him for these past six years, and the fierce independence that had characterized him forever turned into a recognition that only Jesus can handle all our needs and the trials and burdens we meet in life. His heart was finally catching up to the truth that his mind had long accepted—we have to trust God with the hard things, even when we don’t understand.

As he reached the end of himself and gave himself over entirely in dependence on Jesus, suddenly, his joy was back.

His daily position changed from a suffering, toughing-it-out to peace and joy and rest. When we would come in and find him napping in his chair, he was no longer with clenched fists and tense like he had been, but relaxed, peaceful, with a smile on his face and ready to laugh when he woke up. That restful peace continued to grow till the end. Throughout all of this, my dad applied his considerable attention to detail to making my grandad as comfortable as possible, and my mom took care of keeping my dad and the household running.

I’m not very good at saying goodbye. My grandma used to chase her “goodbye,” with, “be sweet,” which I’ve adopted into my vocabulary as well. With Grandpa, though, I always wanted to leave him with a joke, so I’d usually tell him, firmly to, “Be good,” or, “Don’t have any crazy parties while I’m gone,” to which he always had some little retort. This last time, a couple weeks ago, I said, “Don’t pick on Dad too much while I’m gone.”

He turned to look at me, and with a twinkle in his eye he asked, “Then who am I supposed to pick on?”

Those were his last words to me.

Grandad passed away peacefully in his sleep about a week later, and my mom and dad were there right to the very end. He went from resting in his home, surrounded by his loving family, to being HOME.

God is good all the time, and all the time God is good.

And pray for rain.