Grandpa,
You died a couple of months ago now, and our first holiday season without you is fast approaching. I know that we lived far apart, and yet you were dear to me and always had a special place in my heart and impact on my life. I always knew that you were there, such a steady presence in the background of life; your presence was so comforting, and seemed like it would be there forever. It has been hard to imagine life any other way. I’ve cried many tears over the last year and a half, since your diagnosis first signaled the fading of your permanency.
The sort of goodbye that we had was long, ambiguous. Brain cancer has a way of doing that, of creating many small goodbyes along a winding, painful path that leads to the final GOODBYE. Your tenacious spirit, your optimism, your fierce desire for activity and productivity and movement—all of these you held on to for as long as you could, even as slowly you slipped away a little more each day. And then, one day this fall, you were gone. I hope you are finally at peace, that you trusted in Jesus the way you assured me you did when we had a phone call shortly after you were first diagnosed.
That call that I had with you and Grandma nearly two springs ago, right after your diagnosis, was such a gift. You were still yourself, the Grandpa that I’d always known and loved. We both cried at the thought of the end that we both knew was eventually coming, but we also celebrated love, life, connection, hope, resiliency. And through the summer months that followed, when you were still more yourself than not, I treasured getting to exchange emails and calls with you, pictures of my growing family, and even a short visit where I got to see you in person for the last time. I know that days are always a gift, but these days felt especially precious as we knew time was slipping away.
I’ve been finding memories of you have been floating across my mind recently, weaving in and out of my days. It seems fitting for me to remember them, and YOU, again here in writing, on the blog that you, in your characteristic manner of helping me feel quietly supported, read faithfully.
Here are some of my favorite memories of and with you, in no particular order:
How you had such a dry sense of humor, although you often followed your jokes up with your quick wink and mischievous smile.
How I laughed often when I was around you.
How you said “And that…” a lot, and spoke infuriatingly quietly on the phone, so that I and just about everyone else had to constantly say, “What???”.
How you and Grandma visiting felt like Christmas regardless of what month it was, like the start of an adventure, like possibility, like playfulness, like fun.
How childhood summers visiting you and Grandma made time feel like it was slowing down, like the days were meant for playing outside, going on bike rides and boat rides, chasing bugs, eating food, talking about everything and nothing.
How you loved learning and being active and enjoying the little things, especially in nature—I really do think you could have been a nature guide and photographer, as you rarely spoke so freely or poetically as when describing flora or fauna from your travels and adventures.
How you saw me, made space for me, were willing to hear what I was thinking and feeling—and even sometimes shared some of your feelings and experiences.
How you helped me get extra support when I needed it, especially during some of my harder early adolescent years.
How you listened to and encouraged my dreams, including about what I wanted to study and where I wanted to go to school. (I may not have even met my husband if you hadn’t helped me go to the college that I did..!)
How you listened to and supported my passions, including in growing a family and in being a therapist and in writing.
How you were hardworking, and generous—you’ve given me and my little family so much.
How you were incredibly resilient—I know you hardly spoke about your early years, but the little that I am aware of makes it clear that you were courageous and perseverant and resourceful.
How much you liked to eat ice cream.
How you and Grandma shared much encouragement with me and my husband as we transitioned to being new parents.
How you were in better shape than me up until your diagnosis—I still remember the hot, waterless hike we went on as a family several years ago, which I struggled glumly through but which you charged joyfully ahead on; this experience was an apt illustration for how you approached life in general.
How you liked to tinker around with things, even though your fixes were often unique.
How you especially liked to bike ride, fly, and cross-country ski.
How you were always involved in my life, from the time I was a tiny little girl all the way up to when I was a mother of my own tiny boys.
How you delighted in your family.
Last summer, when I got to see you in person for the last time, you got to see my toddler, almost two, full of new words, of wonder for the world, of laughter and playfulness. You joked with him, and did a trick with his cup that he thought was so funny, and as he laughed I was reminded of how many times you made me, too, laugh when I was small. I’m glad we got delight together in him—he was just starting the first chapters of his life; you were finishing the closing chapters of yours. I wish that you could have met my baby, though I’m glad that you got to see me as I was nearing the end of my pregnancy, and that you heard of his eventual birth via phone calls. I’m glad that we got to play games in the evening before bed, eat dessert together, and just be together. I’m glad that we got to take pictures all together, and to hug one another one more time, and to enjoy just being together in the world, alive at the same time in the same place.
And now, life continues on here for me, and for my husband, and for my small boys, for as many days as the LORD allows. And life on this earth has ended for you. I miss you, and I love you. Thank you, Grandpa, for being you—I’m so grateful for you, and for your life. Even as I miss you, I will continue to live and to remember you, my own life and the lives of my family indelibly shaped by yours in ways big and small.
I love you, Grandpa.