Grandpa—A Tale of Faith and Family in Rural China

Editor’s note: In this heartfelt reflection, the author shares a vivid memory of her grandfather, encapsulating not only the familial bonds that define rural Chinese communities but also the spiritual questions that often go unspoken in such settings. As we journey through the author’s eyes back to their small village, we uncover the complexities of faith amidst traditional lifestyles, reminding us of the diverse tapestry of Christian experience in China. This story invites us to ponder the intersections of culture, family, and religion, offering a window into the personal struggles and spiritual contemplations within a Chinese family.

There are a thousand reasons why I love rural China, despite the fact that it is generally poor and disadvantaged compared to urban areas. People here know each other; the houses can be big and surrounded by plants and flowers; birds are almost always chirping right outside the window; fresh fruit, vegetables, and edible plants that God has made are growing everywhere; clear and quiet starry nights soothe my soul, with skylines formed by trees at the other side of the land. This is the place where I enjoyed a hardworking yet naive childhood; this is the place where I first wondered how high the sky in my gaze was and what was beyond what my eyes could see. Is it like the heaven where the Monkey King wreaked havoc in Journey to the West? Probably not. So what is it? This is the place where I first felt a sense of awe gazing up into the sky as a child. This is the place where my heart is; this is the place where, if people knew Jesus, they would follow him literally down to earth; this is the place where he manifested himself to my nephew in my parents’ yard after my desperate cries of helplessness in an immensely lost land. This is the place where God’s glory is yet to be seen in a bigger and more powerful way. This is the place where I experienced his redemptive and transforming power in my immediate and extended family. This is the place where he is going to do even greater things.

My grandpa is one of the reasons why I love my hometown and why I am where I am now.

I remember Grandpa as a whimsical, skinny old man. He was sick a lot, almost his whole life, which left the burden to raise and keep the family basically all on Grandma. Some said he was lazy, but I regarded his behaviors as funny and creative. As far as I know, the best transportation he had between his house and orchard was his rusty tricycle powered by one of his goats. He would often tie the goat to the front of his tricycle to pull him on the sloping roads so that he did not need to do much peddling. They made a strong and powerful team.

I recently returned to my hometown for a season of rest, healing, and rejuvenation, being with family, relatives, and villagers, in hope of sharing the only true hope with them and to see the small village house church grow.

The story of Grandpa came up during an after-dinner chat with my parents the other night. The pain I felt in my chest for my grandpa eight years ago still feels the same.

Years ago, before when I first left my home country for the place thousands of miles away, I wanted to go visit my grandparents. When the time came for me to go and see them, I could not find the white board I had prepared to share the gospel with my grandpa, because he was hard of hearing but could read and write some. I was then told that the whiteboard had been taken by my sister for my nephew. I was enraged and sad because I felt she always did that, messing up what truly matters for a small benefit.

When I got to my grandparents’, I remember sitting on the common country bed (a Kang) by my grandpa and asked him if he knew Jesus. He pointed at his ear and shook his head. My cousin sitting on the side said he couldn’t hear. I was like, okay, Grandpa can wait for me to return to share the gospel with him. I felt kind of relieved.

A few months later, when I was on the other side of the ocean, Mom told me via video-chat that Grandpa passed away the night before I boarded the plane which flew me thousands of miles away.

I was shocked, and blamed my mother for not telling me earlier, because I had kept praying for Grandpa’s salvation. But what was truly happening was that I was weeping and mourning and having a hard time accepting where Grandpa is eternally, because I had thought, surely, I would have another chance to share the gospel with him, and had I done that, my grandpa would have had a chance to be saved and reconciled with God through faith in Jesus the Savior. And his funeral would be one of hope and joy of eternal reunion instead of a thoroughly hopeless tragedy like generations of rural Chinese folks have gone through.

The only time my mom dreamed of Grandpa was not long after he passed away. In her dream, my grandpa fell into a dark and bottomless pit. My dear grandpa who creatively used a goat as a donkey, who tickled the sole of my feet as I woke up hearing the sound of grandma’s air bellow and smelling delicious pork and mushroom stew during winter mornings, suffers in eternity.

“Preach the word; be ready in season and out of season; reprove, rebuke, and exhort, with complete patience and teaching” (2 Timothy 4:2).

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