Campbell Jones

Family, as I have learned, is not defined by the blood or DNA in your body, but rather the love you share with others. I was not biologically related to my grandpa, but he never treated me any differently. The details of the following story may be incorrect or exaggerated, because you tend to forget some of the little things when you’re having the time of your life, and I was always having the time of my life when I was with him.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and the sunlight was shining through my grandma’s thin living room curtains. My sister and I woke up with smiles on our faces, knowing that today was a church day. I didn’t go to church very often, but my grandma and grandpa went every week, without fail. I quickly brushed my teeth and changed into a sundress with pink and purple stripes while my grandma made waffles for the four of us. My grandpa had a special brown reclining chair, but when I was there, he sat on the couch. We were running a little bit late, in a rush to get to the Chapel at Crosspoint, roughly 30 minutes away from their small cul-de-sac. The music played in my grandma’s car was never up for discussion. I buckled myself into the booster seat I was probably too big for as she turned on the K-LOVE station.

I listened to my grandparents sing along to their favorite songs, occasionally joining in when I heard one of those few songs I knew. When we arrived at the chapel, I ran out of the car to hold the door for my grandparents and all the old people that followed. I was just tall enough to reach the counter, putting in my dad’s phone number to prove it was really me. I took the sticker with my name and stuck it to my pink and purple sundress. Before my grandparents could go to real church, they had to drop me and my sister off at the kid’s church.  We were in different grades, meaning we were put into two separate rooms. In my room, we were given crayons and coloring pages, an activity that was just barely related to the things that we were learning. Because I only went to church once every few weeks, I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t have anyone to share my crayons with because I sat at a table by myself. Once the hour was up, I waved goodbye to my teacher and stepped outside to find my grandparents. Just like always, my grandpa was there for me, ready to take me home.

Before we left the church, we turned down a small hallway. I discovered a part of the church I had never known before: the gift shop. My eyes were immediately drawn to a small purple book with a pink zipper. I never had a bible before, except for a small picture book given to me and my siblings when we were younger. This was a real one, the kind that has both testaments and a different color font when God talks. As soon as my grandpa knew I wanted the bible, he was taking me to the checkout. He would’ve bought me 100 bibles if I asked him to. Before getting back in the car, I laid down in the grass with my brand new bible, so my grandpa could take pictures. He didn’t use his phone very often, but he was always taking pictures.