A month ago grandpa went to be with the Lord. He was a simple man. He had only one passion: God. Whatever topic you would start to talk about he would end up sharing the gospel or talking about God. I admired his simple way of living and his focused passion. Once he entered the narrow gate he started carrying his cross and never put it down. It was as if God predestined our family name.
Our ancestor, in the 1800s, was taken by the turks while he was a child to fight in their army. When he escaped, he returned to his homelands. The people thought he was a moslem but he wasn’t. In order to prove it, he made a big cross which he carried around his neck so that people would know he is a Christian. That’s when people started calling him Cruceru, which means „the cross bearer” or one who carries his cross. That’s how we got our family name.
More than a hundred years later a man started carrying Christ’s cross not only in his name but in his life. He carried it for 65 years, in all these years serving his master faithfully to the end. He wore no cross jewelry. He took up His cross with great joy and he carried it to the end, finishing his race well.
Grandpa was a crusader in the true sense of the word. He was a man marked by the cross of Christ. You knew he was different from the very first phrase he spoke.
I am the fourth generation that carries Christ’s cross further. I want to carry it to the end just like my grandfather did. I want my name to show the reality of my life: that I was a cross bearer, a true Cruceru.