The Long Shadow of Faith—Heidi Johnston

by Heidi Johnston

My maternal grandfather had a rich, deep baritone voice with a vibrato that carried shades of both tragedy and triumph. When he sang “How Great Thou Art,” it was a declaration that rose from his soul and seemed to linger in the rafters long after the piano stilled.

Born in Londonderry, Northern Ireland, in 1909, he was nine years old when the Spanish flu pandemic swept across Ireland. In its wake, my grandfather, his sister, and seven of his cousins found themselves orphaned. Taken in by a single aunt, all the children were raised in a two-bedroom terrace house. Even before the events of Bloody Sunday and the decades-long conflict that would grip Northern Ireland, Londonderry was a city of simmering passions and ancient loyalties. It was against this backdrop of hard knocks and social and political unrest that my grandfather began the work of building a life. Known for his kindness and level head, he became a manager in one of Londonderry’s iconic shirt factories. He fell in love a little later than was usual, married, and went on to have a son and a daughter. He worked hard, rising early and staying up until his teenagers were safely in bed. He sang in the choir and served in his church. On Fridays, he came home for steak and chips at lunchtime. Every Saturday, he washed the car.

I can’t help but think of him when I read the passage in Deuteronomy 6, where Moses is addressing the nation of Israel as they prepare to finally go into the promised land. It’s a chapter famous for the Shema, the exhortation to “love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.” (Deut. 6:5 [English Standard Version]), but the verses that follow lay the foundation for a life lived in response to the command. They are the soil in which the ordinary becomes the sacred. Through Moses, God says:

And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates. (Deut. 6:6-9 [ESV])

It was in the work of being married and raising children, planting, harvesting, feasting, and grieving that the word of God would take root and come alive. There was an important place for formal instruction, but the authenticity and beauty of God’s pattern for life would be found when believing parents chose to anchor the life of their family in the truth of God’s Word. When they saturated their own hearts fully in Scripture, it would spill out over dinner, as they walked in nature, or while they watched the sun rise or set on another day. This was not an injunction to nag, but rather an exhortation to have hearts and minds so shaped by the character of God that an awareness of his presence naturally pervaded every aspect of life. It was a quiet rebellion against the culture, a choice to delight in the God who valued their humanity even when they were tempted to search for greatness in all the wrong places. As each generation lived out its faith in the melting pot of everyday life, the embers of their hope would ignite the curiosity of the next generation, and the story would be told again.

That’s how it was for my grandfather. As he walked, he would point out species of plants or birds, eyes sparkling with delight—not only in beauty itself but in the goodness of a God who would create with such abundant joy. As he interacted with his often-fractured community, my grandfather did it with an open gentleness that wasn’t bound by political affiliation. Even his darkest moments became stories of God’s grace that would speak long after his voice fell silent, strengthening the legs of those who had never walked his path.

I’ve learned a lot about my grandfather over the years, but there are a lot of things I don’t know. I have no idea what his laugh sounded like. I’ve never breathed in his familiar scent as he pulled me in for a hug. I don’t know what his flaws were, what we might have disagreed on, or if he had regrets. Although his influence on my life has been profound, I never got the chance to meet him. On a cold day in February 1968, he was driving to a wedding with my grandmother and another couple when their car hit black ice and skidded into the path of a lorry. He was killed instantly. My mum was just 17 at the time. It would be another eight years before I was born and many more before I would begin to understand that it is possible to grieve something you have never had.

A few years ago, my mum found my grandfather’s Bible, presented to him in 1955 by the Curryfree Christian Workers Union “as a token of their appreciation of his faithful service to the Christian cause for a great many years.” It is well worn, with tape on one side where the leather had started to fray. The pages are yellowing, and a handful of verses are underlined. The few words he chose to mark indelibly are a clue to the legacy he left behind:

“And who then is willing to consecrate his service this day unto the Lord?” (1 Chron. 29:5 [King James Version]) “Then the people rejoiced, for that they offered willingly, because with perfect heart they offered willingly to the Lord” (1 Chron. 29:9 [KJV]). “Honor the Lord with thy substance, and with the first fruits of all thine increase: So shall thy barns be filled with plenty, and thy presses shall burst out with new wine” (Prov. 3:9-10 [KJV]).

I may have never met this man whose DNA I carry, but I do know something of his heart. For him, the desire that underpinned everything else was to delight himself in the Lord, offering his whole life, the daily joy and struggle and frustration and delight of it, first and fully to God for his glory. I know, without a doubt, that the life he lived mattered. It mattered as he lived it, in all its rooted, earthy ordinariness. But, more than that, it mattered on a scale he didn’t get to witness in his lifetime. As his faith shaped the people he loved and their faith shaped their own children, the God who is outside of time took my grandfather’s short life, willingly offered, and used it for the continued building of his eternal kingdom. Maybe it’s sentimental but, sometimes, as I run my fingers over his Bible, knowing that he touched the same pages, it’s as if the curtain thins a little and I can almost hear him singing as he cheers me on.

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Heidi Johnston is the author of Choosing Love in a Broken World and Life in the Big Story. She lives in Newtownards, Northern Ireland, with her husband, Glenn, and their two teenage daughters, Ellie and Lara.

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Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash