Grandpa Sheets: Wisdom, Work Boots, and the Light of Heaven

CHAPTER THREE

Grandpa Sheets: Wisdom, Work Boots, and the Light of Heaven

You’ve met the strong, faithful men in my family by now, but even among that remarkable lineage, one figure rises tallest in my memory — my grandpa, Charlie Sheets. His presence shaped my childhood in ways that still echo through my life today. He was steady, wise, endlessly patient, and the kind of man whose quiet example spoke louder than most people’s best speeches. To me, he wasn’t just a grandfather. He was a living blueprint of the kind of man I hoped to become.

If my dad taught me how to live with joy, Grandpa taught me how to live with wisdom.

If Dad gave me confidence, Grandpa gave me steadiness.

If Dad showed me how to love people, Grandpa showed me how to walk quietly and faithfully with God.

I was blessed — truly blessed — to have both of them.

But this chapter belongs to Grandpa.

A Boy and His Grandpa

I spent a big part of my childhood tagging behind him on his farm.

If Grandpa headed to the barn, I headed to the barn.

If Grandpa grabbed a wrench, I grabbed a wrench.

If Grandpa climbed onto the tractor, I climbed right up beside him… or at least tried.

He never pushed me away.

He never made me feel in the way.

He just… welcomed me into his world.

Looking back, that might have been the greatest gift he ever gave me — the sense that a young boy could belong in a man’s world, could learn things that mattered, could ask questions without feeling foolish, could grow under the patient wing of someone who genuinely loved having him around.

I didn’t realize then that he was shaping me.

Teaching me. Forming me. Preparing me.

All I knew was that wherever Grandpa went, I wanted to go too.

Lessons Learned in Work Boots

Grandpa was always building something — repairing a board, tightening a hinge, fixing a fence, tinkering with a motor, or crafting something from scrap lumber that would last another 20 years.

I watched. I learned. I soaked up every trick, every method, every quiet lesson in craftsmanship.

He never made a big display of what he knew.

He simply did — and I followed.

That’s how I became a handyman long before I realized it. That’s how Mom ended up with a teenage son who happily painted houses, built bunk beds, repaired fences, patched roofs, and tackled projects he had no business tackling but somehow pulled off anyway.

If there was a problem, I wanted to fix it. And if I couldn’t fix it, I wanted to learn how.

That instinct — that joy of building, restoring, repairing — came straight from Grandpa.

And funny enough, many years later, when I stood at the Wild at Heart retreat and God whispered my new name — The Builder — it struck me that He had been speaking that over my life since I was a boy trailing behind Grandpa’s work boots.

Faith as Steady as Indiana Soil

Beyond the carpentry and the tools and the practical skills, Grandpa’s faith affected me even more. He wasn’t showy. He didn’t preach. He didn’t need to.

He lived it.

There was a peace about him.

A certainty.

A quiet rootedness that only comes from a lifetime of walking with the Lord through both sunshine and storms.

Whenever life threw something difficult at him — and believe me, it did — he carried himself with a trust in God that felt immovable.

I admired that as a child. I rely on that memory as an adult. I pray my grandchildren will absorb that same steady faith through the story I leave behind.

The Night Everything Almost Changed

Then came the heart attack.

I was in high school when it happened — old enough to understand, young enough to feel terrified. The doctors thought he wouldn’t make it. His heart was failing. His body was exhausted.

And I remember praying — maybe harder than I ever had up to that point.

“Lord… please. I need a few more years. Please let me keep him just a little longer.”

It wasn’t a polished prayer. It wasn’t theologically sophisticated. It was the cry of a boy who wasn’t ready to lose his grandpa.

And God heard it.

He answered with mercy.

Grandpa survived — against the odds.

And when he recovered, he told us a story I will never forget as long as I live.

A Light Too Beautiful to Describe

One Sunday after church, during a family dinner, Grandpa pushed his chair back, folded his hands, and said quietly,

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

We leaned in.

He described lying in the hospital — weak, slipping, drifting toward something he couldn’t quite grasp. And then, he said, he saw it:

A light. Bright. Warm. Gentle. Alive.

“As I walked toward it,” he said, “I realized the light wasn’t just light… it was Jesus.”

He recognized Him.

He said Jesus came close — close enough for Grandpa to feel loved, safe, whole — and then spoke words Grandpa treasured the rest of his life:

“You’re not done yet. I’m sending you back. There’s more I want you to do.”

He didn’t share this to impress anyone. He shared it because it was real.

I watched his face as he told it — the reverence, the emotion, the certainty — and something inside me knew:

He really met Jesus.

For a teenage boy who was still sorting out faith, still figuring out the world, still wondering whether prayer really mattered… that story hit deep.

I believed him.

And I believed Jesus.

I still do.

A Few More Years — A Final Gift

God gave us the years I prayed for.

Years for Grandpa to live out the purpose Jesus said wasn’t finished.

Years for him to speak wisdom into my life. Years for him to shape who I would become as a husband, father, and eventually a grandfather myself.

By the time I went off to college, Grandpa’s health began to falter again.

This time, I was ready.

And when God called him home — peacefully, faithfully — I didn’t feel robbed.

I felt grateful.

Grateful that God gave us more time. Grateful for the legacy he left behind. Grateful for the prayers answered in ways only God could orchestrate.

To My Children and Grandchildren

Let me speak now, directly to those who come after me…

Your great-grandpa Charlie was not a famous man.

He didn’t hold titles. He didn’t build monuments. He didn’t write books.

But he wrote something far greater on the lives of those who knew him.

He wrote faith — lived, steady, real.

He wrote love — generous and practical.

He wrote wisdom — passed hand-to-hand, generation to generation.

He wrote legacy — not in stone, but in hearts.

If you ever wonder what a life well-lived looks like, look to him.

And if you ever doubt whether God hears your prayers — remember how He heard mine. Remember how He gave me more time with a man who helped shape everything I later became.

A Legacy Still Building

I sometimes think about that moment — Grandpa standing in the presence of Jesus, hearing the words “You’re not done.”

Those words echo through our family still.

Because in so many ways, Grandpa’s influence didn’t stop when he died.

It continues through me. Through my children. Through my grandchildren. Through this farm. Through this book. Through every act of faithfulness we carry forward.

We are — truly — standing on the shoulders of those who came before us. And Grandpa Charlie’s shoulders were strong enough to hold generations.

Remember this. As long as we are on this earth, God has a plan for us - "We're not done."

My heros: brother Todd, Dad, baby brother Trent, and Grandpa Sheets

(you can see by my posture how much grandpa meant to me!)