My Grandfather Was a Preacher

Here’s What He Taught Me About Listening.

He was bigger than life.

Not because he was loud, quite the opposite. He was a quiet man. The kind of quiet that draws people in instead of pushing them away. Always with a slight smile. The kind that made you feel like he already knew the punchline but wanted you to enjoy telling the joke.

He was my grandfather. He was a preacher. He was my hero.

In everyday life, he gave others the floor. He didn’t need to dominate a conversation. He didn’t fill silence just because it was there. And that silence? It wasn’t awkward with him …it was comfortable, sacred even.

But when he did speak, we all stopped and listened.

He didn’t demand attention. He earned it.

He was an engineer for Timex. Precision and patience were his currency. He was also a Freemason …a Shriner. I wear his Masonic ring on my finger to this day. Some would say that’s taboo unless you’re a Mason yourself. So I was raised to the Master Mason level in 2008. I wear it proudly. Not as a symbol of status, but as a daily reminder of who taught me the value of presence, honor, and restraint.

He never said much about my art. At least not in the traditional “that’s nice, son” kind of way. But when he looked at it, he saw. He pulled stories out of my work I didn’t even know were hiding in there. He connected the dots with a kind of reverence and insight that felt more like discovery than critique.

He loved my art. And I think, in some ways, he saw more of me in it than I ever could.

He also loved leatherwork … he had a whole collection of tools and would spend hours crafting, just for the joy of it. I still have his leather tools in my art studio. Sometimes, when I’m working on a piece, I glance over at them. They don’t make a sound, but they still speak to me.

I didn’t cry at his funeral in 2001.

I bawled.

Because when you lose someone who shaped your silence, your focus, your purpose … you don’t just lose a person. You lose a compass. You lose the voice that never had to be loud to be heard.

If there’s one thing he taught me … really taught me … it’s this:

Listening isn’t about waiting for your turn to talk. It’s about making space for others to feel seen.

And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do in this world…

Is simply shut up …

and be present.