Donald P. Thompson

My Grandpa died last Wednesday, April 1, 2015. I shared this reflection at his service last week. I find myself needing to share it more broadly. Thanks for reading. 

It may seem odd to call a small town mechanic a renaissance man, but the dated term seems to fit my Grandpa. The drive, for me, from Nashville is a little over 6 hours, during that time I my mind flooded with experiences I shared with my Grandpa, and I was shocked at the range of them.

I’ll start with the obvious stuff, his mechanical mind and his nimble, strong hands. He changed the oil and fixed the breaks of many of our cars. He designed and built astounding slate retaining walls by hand, he crafted beautiful stained glass lamps, and constructed intricate model planes. As a child, I spent many summer days and Saturdays watching him from an old office chair as I spun myself in endless circles. I would often ask him questions, and more often than not, he would answer, explaining how spark plugs worked, or how the AMAZING car lift kept the vehicles safely elevated, or why he had to drain thick, dark fluid from the car. I was, still am, astounded at how he knew how to fix each car, no matter the make, model, problem or age. He was my first lesson in understanding that there are a multitude of ways to be intelligent in this world. My favorite days where when I’d get to help, especially if I got to be in a car while it was on the lift. The idea of it still makes me simultaneously nervous and excited, even though those days are over 20 years ago. Occasionally he’d turn to me with a “now, Lyn” (he’s the only person who’s ever really called me Lyn), “Lyn, I need to concentrate, I need quiet.” I learned quickly that he meant it, and I would find ways to occupy myself.

On warm days I would wander around his garden, inspecting sprouting plants, looking for things ready to harvest, and always hoping for a perfect ripe tomato. There are no better tomatoes on this planet than those grown in my Grandpa’s garden. With plants his knowledge stretched even further. It seemed he could grow anything, he knew how to tend the soil to help each plant thrive, how and when to plant each thing, how to harvest seeds and bulbs to share with neighbors and plant the following year. He even knew how to help a 6 year old be patient when things took their natural time, how to get that 6 year old to kneel down on an old blanket and become enthralled with planting beets and carrots, and he knew that four o’clocks, with their magical hours of blooming, could be the secret to teaching a young kid to see wonder and Sacred possibility everywhere in the world around them.

On appearances, one might assume my grandpa to be a rough, tough kind of man, and he certainly had a bit of that side, though I rarely saw it. What I more often saw were tough hands doing gentle things: pointing out the beauty of rolling hills as we drove across the county side; picking me up to sit in his lap as he called me pumpkin; delicately planting iris bulbs; showing me toward the ducks so I could gleefully feed them while he laughed at my joy; and once, rescuing a baby raccoon, and trying to nurse it to health.

He reveled in beauty everywhere: sunsets, story telling, and the train rolling past; lemonade on the back patio, a homemade meal, and the clean flight of a well-crafted miniature plane; a cup of coffee after lunch, live musicals and Laurence Welk, and the companionship and support of the women he loved, his wife Kathleen, and their 4 daughters.

It’s not that he was perfect or always gentle. As we heard at least 10 times yesterday, and hundreds, if not thousands, of times before that, “He was a Thompson.” Meaning he could be hard headed, exacting, and stubborn, and he acted much of that out on those he loved most, those same 5 women.

But he loved deeply, even when he couldn’t name it aloud, and he continually wondered at the world, at its innate beauty, and the possibility it held.

One definition of “renaissance man” highlight’s unquenchable curiosity. It was on the drive up here that I started to realize that my Grandpa is the person who taught me to meet the world with profound wonder, never-ending curiosity, and ongoing willingness to ask questions. To live knowing that there is always more to learn, not in the school sense, but from actively living in and loving the world, and the people around you. He was always teaching me something, but it never felt like a lesson, it was more of an invitation to wonder and explore. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.  But now, I know I am called to hold on to it, to live with unquenchable curiosity and finding the awe-some beauty in the world everyday. I am called to do this because of my Grandpa.

L. Kathleen Thompson

I wrote this for my Grandmother's funeral service, June 24, 2011. I just wanted a place to share it.

L. Kathleen Thompson

Born May 26, 1928—Passed June 21, 2011 at the age of 83

My Grandma, Kathleen Thompson was a strong woman with a dry, quick wit, and a kind smile that would light up a room. She had a unique way of seeing and commenting on the world. She would make subtle, sarcastic observations that could start a whole room laughing. Even as she sat in the ICU this weekend she was dropping quips. Someone told her that Kelsey, Emily and I were hitting the road, her response: “Well watch out America.” When she got tickled herself, her laughter would rise above the white noise of the room. If she was laughing it was nearly impossible not to grin along with her. I particularly ‘hear’ that laugh in memories of being a child at family gatherings as my grandparents’ house. Grandma and her four daughters, Cindy, Robin, Jennifer and Deanna, would be upstairs in the kitchen pulling stuffing out of the oven, gathering plates and glasses, and you could hear Grandma’s laughter ring out over the noise. I was glad when I was finally big enough to be helpful, rather than in the way, and could be part of the joy in those conversations.

I was the first and only grandchild of the Thompson family for six years. While all five of us, Kelsey, Ross, Emily, Ryan, and myself were showered in love and spoiled; I know I was blessed with the opportunity to spend a significant amount of time with my Grandma those first few years. I spent the majority of my time with her at the stained glass shop my aunt and uncle owned. It took me years to realize how much she’d taught me as I sat on the floor making train tracks and towns out of glass globs, and as she cautiously taught me how to handle glass and grind a piece to size.

She taught me that it pays to be kind to people, not in dollars, but in kindness returned. She’d greet most everyone with a “Well hi” like she was pleasantly surprised to see you, and send you off with a sincere, “come back again soon” that made you feel welcome and embraced.

She showed me that anything worth doing well takes patience—the patience to play well, carefully choosing colors and tracing patterns, and the patience to see a project all the way through.

She taught me that anything you do should be done right an well, no matter how many times you have cut that same piece of glass. Short cuts in time will surely show up in your final product. If you are going to put your time into it and your name on it, it is worth taking the time to do it right.

And she taught me that all of that time required takes endurance and stick-to-itiveness. Neither stained glass, nor life are easy all of the time, but you keep trying, adjusting, and making what you’ve got work. She applied this to all of life, stained glass, gardening, raising a family, and keeping everyone on track. When you get frustrated and worn out, it’s ok to step back and take a break, as long as you get back to work and keep at it.

I believe that Grandma has made us all stronger people, but I think that especially applies to the women in our family. She stood her ground, expressed herself clearly, and didn’t back down from what she believed. She taught us to stand strong for ourselves, our beliefs, and those we loved.

There’s been a lot of conversation about family traits and stories over the last two months, and several themes keep reoccurring. Though there is a stubborn streak in this family a mile wide, I think most days it serves us well. On our best days, we are honest, loyal folks, who are straightforward and sincere—what you see is what you get. Grandma was the best of all of that, and she made sure to instill those values in each of us through her living example. She didn’t necessarily have to teach us those virtues; she walked them every day. Because of her we each carry that strength with us as we move through life.

May we each remember the ways that Kathleen Thompson touched our hearts and our lives. May we carry with us her patience, her hard work, and her welcoming smile. May we hold onto the light of her laughter and her life, through our own memories and love.

now it's personal

Not that it hasn't always been. This is going to be a little scattered- a little grace would be appreciated.

News broke today about an attack on two men on Vanderbilt's campus. The attack happened on September 9. One of the men was an undergraduate and the other was a recent graduate of the Divinity school (the professional school that I am also enrolled in). They were getting food at a Quizno's that is attached to a campus dorm. The two men were apparently being affectionate and two other men (well, one is technically a boy at the age of 17-he's a freshman and the other guy was his friend/guest) began to vocalize homophobic slurs. The Div school student asked if there was a problem, and the perpetrators said something along the lines of 'get out of my face.' As the two affectionate men (self-identified as gay) left, the other two followed, attacked the Div student and beat his face while repeating the homophobic slurs. Both the Vanderbilt and Nashville Metro police departments are investigating and charges have been filed. You can find out more here~ http://www.insidevandy.com/drupal/node/4766. You can also see channel 4's coverage of the incident here~ http://www.wsmv.com/news/14135106/detail.html.

I have a friend who isn't a big fan of the phrase 'hate crime.' Truth be told, there are probably a number who take issue with the phrase. But I don't even know how else to respond to this, and the nashville police have labeled it such (even though there is no federal legislation that will back that claim up for crimes where sexual orientation is the motivator). Reading about it, talking about it, thinking about it, I feel violated. It makes that threat of violence so real. I actually feel very similar to how I felt after I was mugged. This crime is not about money or personal vendettas, it is simply about hating someone because of who they are, and feeling justified and empowered by the society around you to express that hatred violently. There have been numerous stories and rumors about such things happening around campus, especially to gay men, but now it's undeniable. And as the co-chair of the divinity school's GLBTQ organization, and as an activist, and as someone who gives a shit, I'm called to act, react, and lead. But I'm struggling to figure out how.

Windhoek

In two weeks I leave for Africa. I'll be in Namibia for about 12 days (with days on each end for travel). First let me say that though this trip is through the Div school, it is not a mission trip. I wouldn't go if it was.

I'm still very wary of the word and concept of mission. A bunch of privledged Christians going to 'poor' areas or nations and bring 'the Word' and 'salvation,' along with their own overpowering understanding of how things should be 'fixed.' Mission, even if some of it's colonizing tendencies have been erased (or just better hidden), is still about us talking and you listening. It's about the missionizer having the answers, and the missionized being put in a position were accepting those answers seems to be the lesser of two evils.

I'm calling this the 'shut up and listen' trip. Officially, it's called a cultural immersion. The point is to listen to as many voices as possible from a culture that will be very different from the one we know and try to open ourselves up a bit to questioning our own assumptions and values. We'll meet government officials, clinic directors, farmers, students, teachers, and vendors just to name a few. There is a hope that we can develop some understanding of what a recipricol relationship would look like for some of these communities between them and a bunch of naive and over-eager grad students. But the understanding is that these relationships are to be defined on their terms, not ours.

Certainly it's not perfect, there are flaws in every system, but this seems to be a way to travel that is less focused on consuming the other than most.

People keep asking me if I'm excited. There seems no way to properly express my feelings about this trip- the whole thing is so big that I have no words or overall comprehension of what the trip may hold for me, my friends, my mind, and my emotions.

Four words

I'm going to Africa.


(More info to come.)