Past Grief to Gratitude (The Unspoken Things)

                               

Last weekend I had my grandchildren over to spend the night and part of Saturday.  They came armed with blankets, pillows, toys and energy.  I was foolishly unarmed, because I assumed one would not need armor for the glorious presence of grand children.  I was already worn out from the day. After all, I am not a spring chicken. 

I soon remembered that children are not herd animals.  They enter through one door as a group, and immediately split off into separate entities, with different mind-sets and one goal; to conquer everything in their path. There is no possible way of making them go in the same direction because each of them has something different they want to do.  And they all want to do their own thing at the same time.  Within seconds of entering my abode, their stuff and mine was everywhere it should not be.  It was hard to find a trail to the kitchen. 

Then the questions. Not in orderly fashion, mind you, but in rapid-fire succession as if an automatic assault rifle had just exploded on its own, sending shrapnel of questions every which way.  My ears shut off after a while. 

I began to think what would these children, who have been raised in front of a TV and brought up with a multitude of electronic gadgets, be like if they had been raised in my era.  I shudder to imagine the mayhem. 

My grandfather, affectionately known as Grandad, was my sole parent.  He took on this responsibility when I was the tender age of six, when my mother went to be with the Lord.  Soon after that, my father remarried, and I obtained a brother who was only 4 months younger than I was.  We were not herd animals either, although we did run as if we were a wolf pack.  Rounding us up was darn near impossible. Much like my grandchildren.  And he took this on at the ripe old age of 73. 

My brother and I had free run of 50 acres, a river that ran miles and miles, plains and prairies that spread hundreds of miles.  We tromped around every one of those miles exploring every piece of dirt, every rock, every tree, inventing our own games.  Had my grandchildren attempted some of those games, I would be in a mental hospital right now.  I thought of the things my brother and I had tried.  Like the multitudinous attempt to fly, off the roof of a two-story barn with a sheet, off of cliff walls 20 feet high without a sheet, jumping into flood waters so the water could eject us on the other side of a culvert. Oh and trying to ride a bull that had no intentions of letting us. What stress we must have put my poor grandfather under, and how on earth did he survive it?

Then there were those teenage years, when I am sure, had he had any hair left, he would have pulled it all.  Those nights of waiting up, wondering where I was, who I was with, and what I was doing. 

He was, as they called it in his day, unflappable.  For all appearances, he was always calm, cool and collected.  He always had an answer for every question, and a question for all of my foolish answers.  He never argued about anything, and his word was his bond.  He was a living example of Christ. 

And yet, for as much as I admired him, following him everywhere and trying my best to emulate his example, I don’t remember ever telling him “Thank You” for the things he taught me.  To be precise, I don’t remember ever telling him “I love you”.  I suppose I assumed that he knew how I felt about him, since I wanted to spend every waking hour with him up until my teenage years. I also don’t remember having ever expressed gratitude for him pouring himself into our lives, without withholding anything of what he had or of who he was. This ungratefulness to the man who was the integral part of my life, until I found Christ. 

I remember the night that I found Christ.  It was the night after my Grandad had passed away.  I was alone in the house, in the dark, in my heartbreak.  I turned to a little book that Grandad had always read to me at bedtime.  That book, a child’s book, was about Christ, his life, his God Head, His sacrifice, and His victorious resurrection.  Although at the time, I was turning to God because I had no one else, I did not understand that it was the simple words of one caring man, the one I had lost, that pointed me to the one who would be the source of my comfort.   It was as if Grandad knew all along that God would take care of me, should it happen that he was no longer here for me. 

The grief I experienced for years with every thought of him was an interminable source of pain.  I wanted someone to blame for my loss.  Even when my own children were grown, I had figured out in my head that he could have possibly lived 120 years, so they could know him.  It was like I could not let go. 

Yesterday I figured out why.  Although there was plenty of talk about him, the things he said and did, there had never been that spoken gratitude for having him in my life.  In another round of missing him, I finally got it, and it brought me to my knees.  He had been put in my life to guide me to the One who would sustain that life.  And he had taken on that task in the later years of life, when one who is retired should be relaxing and enjoying life.  He had taken on the stress of raising an unruly, adventurous child, and had completed his task as best he could.  As I will with my own grandchildren, God willing. 

But there was still the matter of that unspoken gratitude.  The grief of losing him had hung around so long, it had overwhelmed the truth of what it meant to have him in my life. I prayed about this, and then I began to speak it out loud. 

“Grandad, I don’t remember telling you I loved you, but I think you know now that I loved you, admired you and respected you, with the very core of my being.  Thank you for all the things you taught me, from how to sweep a floor, deliver a colt or a calf, leave the wild things wild, to respecting the life of every plant, animal, and human on this planet.  Thank you for the nights spent lying out on the lawn, teaching me the constellations, and the long talks we had.  Thank you for taking on the raising of an orphan without batting an eye, and for making my childhood a fun adventure.  Thank you for your sense of humor, your diligence to Godly things, and even for those ugly pajamas you made.  Thank you for sharing your time on this planet with me.  It has made all the difference in my life.”

Then began the prayer that will begin the true healing past this old grief.  “Lord, thank you for this man you put in my life.  Thank you for leading him and teaching him, and providing all that we needed.  Thank you for your providence that made this specific man my parent.  And thank you for his life.  He showed me the way to you, and demonstrated what peace and love can come from a life well lived for you.  Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.”