Turning Point

What I learned at grandpa's funeral.

As a child I remember seeing a party decorated with black balloons, black cray paper, black tablecloths, black napkins, etc. One balloon, the kind you used to buy at a K-mart checkout counter read, “Over the Hill.”

I asked my mother why all the black? She responded, “Someone is turning 40.” Why does it say ‘Over the Hill? “Because they’re middle-aged. They’re half way through their life,” she replied.

I could not wrap my head around this for two reasons. In my mind, people lived to be well over 80, so how could 40 be over the hill? How did they know this person might not live to be 100? In which case, the black balloons should not be brought out until their 50th birthday. Secondly, why was black being used to celebrate? All birthdays, to a child, are to be treasured and celebrated colorfully, with lots of confections.

Silently I promised myself I’d live to be 100. And no black balloons—ever.

I am 39, at the precipice of 40. My grandpa just died. I attended his Celebration of Life service in the same small village he lived in for 60+ years. In the little church he attended all those years, the same one I remember overflowing with children and laughter when I was little, had dwindled in attendance over time. The last time I visited several years ago, I don’t think the attendance rose above 60.

The day of my grandpa’s service, however, the church pews could not contain the number of people who attended. Even the overflow section was so full some folks needed to stand along the back and sides of the meeting hall.

He’d passed almost two weeks prior and I hadn’t cried yet. I knew I needed to cry. The only way I would is if I stood up and looked out over the crowd of people who’d been touched by this man we all loved so much.

Sure enough, before I could utter my first word, standing in front of this small sea of people, I broke. My words were not carefully thought out. They were not poetic. I simply forced every thought racing through my mind out and through my mouth—passed the falling tears.

I did not know a large number of folks who attended. A few stood up to share a story about this ornery, positive, prayerful, strong man who, despite more than a decade of living in a wheelchair with one working limb, still found a way to give to everyone around him.

He’d cart around the village and wave at passers-by. If the battery to his chair was too low for a stroll, he’d simply stay on the porch, waving at every car that passed by. The Town Greeter they called him.

For context, this man once loved body building. His house, which I visited at least once a week with my cousins, aunts, and uncles, had muscle magazines littering almost every room. We loved examining at the legendary Arnold Schwarzenegger, but loved it even more when we could get our friends to punch grandpa in his rock solid gut. One of my cousin’s friends sprained his wrist.

Grandpa’s physical strength was matched only by his love for others. It was an active love. It was a love that overflowed from within him. It was the love of Jesus—and it touched everyone in that room even in his absence.

The hour I spent in that church changed my life as that love resonated around all of us. It felt like I was drinking a hot cup of cocoa early in the morning on a cold Winter’s day. It was warm, satisfying, and brought a smile to my face.

Grandpa was not afraid to talk about Jesus. Nor was he afraid to pray. Many of us will say, “I will pray for you,” or “My thoughts and prayers are with you.” But Grandpa would not wait. He would, in that very moment, say, “Let’s pray.” He would not wait for you to comply, he simply bowed his head and off he’d go in a conversation with Jesus whether you were ready or not.

I think we’re all afraid in moments where prayer is needed most we’ll sound dumb or look silly. But confidence is everything, and confidence only comes with practice. And he practiced every day. Furthermore, we might feel our unworthiness to pray. We think to ourselves that everyone can see our sins and scoff at our opportunity to show how pious we are, while they secretly whisper to themselves, your hypocrisy is showing.

But think for a moment on every moment you needed needed help. Now imagine a man with no legs and one working arm who, upon hearing your story, bowed his head, leaned forward, and with, “Heavenly Father …” You might have a moment of embarrassment, but more often than not I imagine you’d experience a wave of compassion wash over you. Warmth and emotion would bubble up because you’re seeing faith in action, not in lip service.

Grandpa was just as sinful as anyone else, but he wasn’t afraid to pull Jesus into the conversation. I am, however. I’m terrified every time. This is my new life goal.

In my youth I could not wait to leave Ohio. It wasn’t meant for me because I was meant for greater things. The idea of laying on a death bed full of regrets was motivation enough to send me off into the world with a vision of conquering and a passion for new experiences.

I did those things. I’ve had a full life. I’ve come to have many regrets.

What I thought I wanted was fame and fortune. Believe me, I tried to attain both. I think I got rather close. But in LA, you have to be willing to slit a few throats if you want to get to the top, and I don’t have the stomach for such things.

But there, in that small Methodist church in that small Ohio village, I was awestruck by the impact my grandpa had on so many people. He was by no stretch a perfect man, but that makes him all the more astounding—because his accomplishments are attainable.

Over the last half a year I’ve changed a lot. That moment with those people initiated a new metamorphosis. Where once I desired a fast-paced life, the money of kings, and the love of strangers, I now seek to slow down and to be present with people around me, both known and unknown. It’s no longer about being loved, but showing love to others. And true love is sacrificial. How can I help remove your burden?

I will not become this ideal version of myself overnight. In fact I believe it will be a long process of failing and continuing to be selfish. But my grandpa gave me a pretty amazing blueprint.

When I turn 40 later this year, I will, for the first time in 18 years, be living in Ohio. The land I fought so hard to leave behind now feels like the only place to offer peace—and fulfillment.

To be surrounded by friends and family, to offer help when it’s needed (and it’s always in demand), to grow roots and invest in community, to live a simple life—these are things I now want most.

Now to practice. How can I help remove your burden?

< Older Post Newer Post >

Share this article:

D&D as Therapy

By Shawn Spitler • 11 Nov, 2023

How 'Game Mastering' helps my creativity.

Where Does the Time Go?

By Shawn Spitler • 31 Mar, 2022

... and why do I look so different?!

My Failed Attempt At Symbolism

By Shawn Spitler • 21 Apr, 2020

For my thesis film at NYU, Bull Thistle, I wanted to be ambitious. My love for aviation led me to draft a script where an imaginary airplane haunts the main protagonist of the film. In the original script, Dawn, an angsty teenager, yearns for freedom from her over-worked life on the farm. This was to be a subplot motivated through the imagery on screen and never explicitly stated in the film. I already know what you're thinking, but film school is where we're meant to make mistakes and learn the hard way. The practical footage we shot for this subplot is some of my favorite footage. This also made it a painful reality for me when I had to chop it out of my final project. The reason for cutting it is twofold. Firstly, it doesn't cut together very well, as you can see above. This type of scene required more shots that I simply didn't have. I'd storyboarded this scene until I was certain it would work, and it still fell short. Looking at the footage now, after all these years, it's clear to me how I'd approach the shot list but even then I'm sure I'd fail to gather everything I'd need (because you never have enough footage). The second reason, the reason I'm writing this article, has to do with symbolism and how I've learned not to do it. More importantly, this is somewhat a diary entry I'm airing publicly, because I'm exploring how I'd tackle this again if I had the chance. My failure became apparent during my NYU thesis review. For the uninitiated, this is where your thesis film is screened by select faculty members and they determine if you've learned enough to be worthy of receiving the coveted Master's Degree. Going into my review I felt uneasy with the product I'd made (for good reason). Some of my previous work had received high praise around the school, and it felt like folks expected a lot from me. I wasn't handing them a product I felt good about. And the feedback was more hurtful than I anticipated. One of the faculty members stated, "I'm worried. I don't think you have the footage you need to make this into a coherent story." Ouch. My biggest problem? I believe it was the dream sequence whereby the protagonist is chased down by an airplane. When I'd written it, it made complete sense. Dawn is haunted by her passion to escape her current life. This desire is manifested through her visions of an airplane that haunts nearly every scene: in the background, on the fringes or through audio cues. And how, exactly, did I tie this symbolic figure to Dawn's desires for freedom? In the opening scene she's sitting with an aviation book in her lap. What a terrible idea. What was I thinking? Past-Shawn is very dumb. Future-Shawn is a little less dumb, so let's see what he has to say about the scene where the airplane attacks. In the lead-up to this scene, Dawn discovers her dad has been cheating on her mom with her aunt. This movie is actually about Dawn struggling with this information and finding the courage to tell her dad she knows about his adulterous affair. In a subsequent scene, Dawn and her father are shoveling cow manure until her aunt arrives and daddy goes a running. As Dawn watches the aunt's mini van drive down the lane with her father inside, Dawn is chased by the airplane. This confused EVERYBODY! And it should. It makes no sense. It makes no sense because I failed to do two things: (1) tie the airplane to the symbol it represented, and (2) distinctly separate her reality from her fantasy. In one of our directing classes, my professor screened a short film made by a prior student. If memory serves me right, it was called Stick Boy , but I can't find any evidence of its existence on the internet. It was, to me, a perfect MOS film (a movie filmed without sound or dialogue). The film opens on a young boy poking a condom on the ground with a stick. He then stumbles on a young girl playing hide and go seek. He begins to poke her with the stick. She resists. He persists. She struggles. He kills her. It's very striking. The stick in Stick Boy is symbolic of, well, his penis. How do we know? Because there has been a direct correlation made between the stick and the condom from the very first shot. When Stick Boy pokes the girl, we have carried our prior knowledge of that shot into this scene. The stick has been sexualized and we understand clearly what we are seeing—a rape. At no point in Bull Thistle did I connect an airplane to anything outside of itself. The airplane was always an airplane and nothing else. I might have gotten away with this if I'd addressed issue number two and better separated Dawn's reality from fantasy. Honestly, it might have been as easy as changing the color balance so we could see something was different. We'll never know. But from a screenplay perspective, this was flawed from the get-go. When her aunt's car drives away and immediately the airplane chases her down, the absurdity alone is not enough for an audience to understand what's going on. At the end of the day, I'd failed to be an audience member of my own movie. I did not visualize my film from the only perspective that matters. I'm lucky to have had enough footage to prove the professor at my thesis review wrong; I did have enough there to tell a story sans-airplane. But it was a painful process of recutting the film a thousand different ways in an attempt to salvage this footage. In the end I had to let it go.