Grampa’s Psalm
Every June the 15th, my family remembers and celebrates my Grampa’s now heavenly birthday (and this year, Father’s Day on the same special day). We often gather to share a meal, reminisce, and read together from his favourite Psalm, Psalm 116. Sometimes we refer to it as “Grampa’s Psalm.”
I can still see my Grampa, sitting around a table full of guests, singing with steady intention, “I love the Lord, the fount of life and grace. He hears my voice, my cry and supplication. Inclines his ear, gives strength and consolation.” And in his last days, though he was barely able to communicate, if you looked closely while we sang this Psalm, you’d see his lips still shaping those poignant words, life and death my heart will seek his face.”
That Psalm has always been special to me. For my Grampa’s attachment to it and the God of whom it spoke. For the ways it comforted me in high school when I lost two friends to tragic accidents and my understanding of God’s goodness was challenged. To the sheer beauty of the language and the promise of the Lord to deal tenderly and bountifully with his people. But one verse of the Psalm in particular sums up my constant spiritual struggle in such a frank question, it has become a lifeline for me:
“What shall I render to the LORD for all his benefits to me?” or in another translation, return to the LORD for all his goodness to me?” (emphasis mine)
Unbeknownst to me, I was essentially asking this question of God for most of my early Christian life. My heart was constantly wondering, “What shall I return to the LORD for all his goodness to me?” The question used to haunt me, chase me, nip at my heels while I was trying to run the race set before me. I asked it like this, “Have I returned enough to you yet? Have I proved my thankfulness? Do you believe that I love you - can’t you tell?” Every sin I chose and mistake that seemed to choose me felt like a crushing blow to the thankfulness meter I was always keeping track of - not really afraid that God didn’t love me, but terrified that he didn’t believe I loved him back. I was wracked with anxiety about my inability to return enough to prove the depths of my thankfulness.
I lived with a frantic desire to prove myself to God. Without realizing it, I was answering this question with, “I will return my life, my goals, my efforts, my time, my good deeds!” And of course that’s not completely unbiblical, it’s just not completely, well, complete. The answer the Psalmist gives is none of these things. It’s as if the question itself was nearly rhetorical.
“I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the LORD.” A triumphal, celebratory motion, to lift up a cup. A motion born out of great joy and relaxation. I will say “cheers” to God and celebrate his goodness to me.
I often hear Christians explain the “flow” of salvation this way: “God loved you so much that he sent Jesus to die to save you from your sin, so live a life of thankful obedience.” It’s not incorrect, but it’s missing a step. It can too easily be twisted into manipulative love bombing, as though God was some narcissistic boyfriend - look at everything I’ve done for you, why don’t you love me yet? It creates apressure to even the score, to keep up your thankfulness to the level of what you have been given. And that is because the missing step in the formula is the receiving and the resting in God’s love.
The clearest memories I have of spending time with my Grampa are sitting around my grandparents’ kitchen table, the slowly disappearing sunset shining through the glass behind me onto a table laden with good things. “Cheers!” they call out, and all of our sparkling, crystal glasses clink in the middle of the table. Goblets of wine and “kid wine” and milk playfully meeting in an exhibit of joy and gladness. And after a delicious meal we all lean back, smiling and satisfied, one sibling on each grandparents’ lap while my Grampa reaches into the drawer behind him for the Bible.“ I love the LORD , for he heard my voice;” he reads, “he heard my cry for mercy. Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live.”
I wonder if he knew what he was doing then - he and my Gramma together. Painting a picture for me of what it looks like to feast on the goodness of God. To lift up the cup of salvation. To answer “what shall I return to the LORD for all his goodness to me?” with a humble bowing of the head to pray, a generosity to others that brought out the rosy in their cheeks, a stalwart resolution to return faithfully to his work the next day. But first, a grateful acceptance and a deep enjoyment of the gift.
When I look back on those memories I see something of what I was missing for so long (and what I so often go back to). The receiving, the resting, the relaxation of God’s love. The surrender to His goodness. The utter lack of franticness or fear of making things even. What shall I return to the LORD for all his goodness to me? I will accept it with no pressure to return anything. And that surrender will in turn return to him everything.
Faith is not a formula. You can’t plug in God’s infinite grace and expect a life of perfect thankfulness to come out neatly on the other side of the equation “What shall I return to x to make it equal to y?” It is not a transaction. It is something more personal and mysterious than that; a tasting and seeing that the Lord is good. When we explain the “flow” of salvation, we must include that part. Alongside a healthy understanding that a relationship does not always follow neat step by step processes. Upon leaving my grandparent’s place my mom would always remind us, “Say thank you for everything.” And we would leave full bellied, pyjama clad and drowsy in a chorus of “thank you for everything!”s.
I want my grown up life to resemble the ten year old me in that moment. Relaxed and filled up and ready to rest the whole way home; thankful for everything. Not scheming up how I’d even the score some day between me and my grandparents, or wallowing in a pool of shame and fear at the fact that I never would. When I feel the old familiar temptation to return to the LORD enough to prove my love, I feel the Spirit whisper the words of Grampa’s Psalm to my heart,
“The LORD is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion. The LORD protects the unwary; when I was brought low, he saved me. Return to your rest, my soul, for the LORD has been good to you.”
Sometimes I imagine my Grampa smiling down from heaven saying, “Ah I’m glad you love that one too,” and I thank God for the legacy he left me.
To my Gramps in heaven: “Cheers!” And to Jesus, “Thank you for everything.”