I actually love sharing the story about my grandfather, because it was the first time I ever lost someone really close to me... and as a screenwriter, I can honestly say that if I hadn't experienced it myself, I might not have believed it; it would be almost too cheesy as a story for anyone to believe. The story is so thick with mention of God because I want to give full testimony to what I witnessed and experienced personally.
And as I look over this story, I realize I started to get pretty poetic, sentimental, and narrative-like... I guess that's because I remember the emotions still, and hope that perhaps sharing mine might bring you a shade of comfort.
I was working for a mobile summer camp back in 2013, so I was traveling around the country setting up weekly day-camps with kids. On the Sunday before the week of July 4th started, my mother called to tell me that my grandfather (a WWII veteran) had had a stroke while gardening. She was going to Illinois to see him and her mother; both of her parents had always been incredibly healthy for their age, but they also didn't want to live on life support or be in a nursing home, so my grandfather wasn't going to be on any sort of machine to keep his heart and lungs functioning. It took a whole ton of work from my camp director and others, but we were able to arrange for me to fly out on Friday and skip the last day of camp to see him (or at least the family). I was in a daze of shock, and could focus on little else but finishing work early every day, so that I could prepare to have everything done by Friday. I prayed all week that he would stay alive until I got there... and he did.
I was taken to the hospital as soon as I got into town; he wasn't too coherent, but my mother and some other extended relatives were there. We talked about him and to him and held his hand... we even sang a couple of hymns and I choked up because of how sweet it all was, singing for a dying man. I've never been one for tears, but I certainly was that weekend.
As we were leaving, my mother told me that dinner was at the house (the same house that he built as an engineer, 50 years ago, and still lived in) with everybody else.
Everybody else...
That was when I remembered... there was a family reunion going on! We'd been planning the reunion for two years, and it just happened to be at that house, on that week, during that summer.
I'd been in such a daze preparing all week, I'd completely forgotten! So not only were a few close family members and friends there to see my grandfather... everyone was. Second cousins, great-nieces, grand-children even from Alaska, not to mention a few great-grandchildren. In fact, late that night my two little sisters were flown in, too, though they (like me) weren't originally going to attend. By Saturday morning, my grandfather had been farewelled by every single one of his children and grandchildren in person.
That morning was the big reunion luncheon, with a large tent in the front yard. There were games, of course, including a poll of bets on which grandchild would get married next. Many people spoke about our family history, and nearly all of them made mention of my grandfather and his profound influence on their life. He was the pillar of the family, the trunk of a great tree that had the widest branches of any family I've ever heard of. He was a man of great faith, with a discipline and love that had spread his faith to his children and grandchildren and beyond.
We sang, too... I even ended up singing an impromptu solo of one song, which I'd only just sung for the first time the night before, in the hospital. I didn't cry that time, though a lot of people did... and later when there was another song sung by everybody, I choked up so much I couldn't even sing.
The last thing to happen was when my uncle got up to give the benediction. He's my grandfather's only son... and he actually doesn't have any biological children: his two sons are adopted. In fact, they're going to be the only two grandchildren to carry on the family surname... but rather than passing on a bloodline, hopefully they're going to be carrying on a legacy of faith instead.
When my uncle came up, he was holding a piece of paper, and the garden hoe. He said that no one had bothered to pick up the hoe from where it had fallen in the garden seven days ago... but that it was time to do so now. He read a benediction that my grandfather had actually been writing during the previous week, in preparation... and my uncle mixed it with Bible verses about the patriarch Jacob, who was giving final instructions to his own family before he died. I'm pretty sure that there wasn't a dry eye in the place when he finished by reading:
"And when Jacob had finished commanding his sons, he drew his feet up into the bed and breathed his last, and was gathered to his people."
After that, festivities began... desserts, mingling, perhaps a ball game or something, I don't remember really. I was spending most of my time around our grandmother, and went into the house to get a band-aid when she scraped her foot. My father, my uncle, an aunt, and I were in the house when the phone rang. I was right at the desk, though I don't remember whether I was the one to pick it up. We could all hear the nurse on the other side, though. She said my grandfather had passed, sometime within the past twenty minutes or less though they weren't sure exactly. But I think I know exactly when it happened.
We drifted out of the house, slowly. I passed my mother... I think she saw a hint in my eyes that told her something was amiss, but I let Dad tell her, and saw her face as she curled into his arms for comfort. I was heading for my grandmother, though. My uncle told her, and many of us were waiting to embrace her as he did. She didn't cry too hard -- she was too strong-willed to get emotional in public, I think -- but the hugs were tight. The word spread like a silent wildfire through the crowd of people, and they all came.
Slowly, without planning or rehearsal, a circle formed in the yard... young and old joined it until we ran around the perimeter of the front property, everyone there with my grandfather's blood in their veins or his imprint left on their life... and we started to sing. It was the Doxology: "Praise God from whom all blessings flow, praise him all creatures here below... praise him above, ye heavenly host... praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen."
It's not a very long song, but it was long enough for me to choke by the end because of how beautiful it all was... like we were singing him to Heaven. Far from feeling like a tragedy, the entire experience struck me as the incredible happy ending to a story that I was privileged to be a part of. There were other incredible moments that were woven into that week, and everyone who was there remembers different key pieces of the patchwork quilt. For example, the very last meal that my grandfather had, a certain type of sandwich, was also the very first meal that my grandmother had ever made for him (and apparently those sandwiches helped spark the idea in his head that he should marry her). The sermon that their pastor had given on the morning of his stroke was about Psalm 23: specifically the verse, "[The LORD] helps me lie down in green pastures." And on it goes.
The funny thing is, all of those sappy, existential, un-specifically spiritual movies that talk about death suddenly made a tiny bit more sense to me. All of those remarks like, "The ones who love us never really leave us," had always been ignored by me because they felt like a secular world's attempt to feel enlightened... but I suddenly knew there was a grain of truth deep inside it somewhere.
I've always kept a firm grip on emotions; I know that they can change and interfere with both life decisions and spiritual decisions. Feelings come and go... the lack of them doesn't make something any less real. So yes, I had firmly believed that my grandfather would go to Heaven -- long before that day even came... but I hadn't expected to feel it, too. And I still do feel it. Not as if he's not far away in his house where I'll only see him now and then... but as if he's always around wherever I am, or wherever anyone in our family is: hanging about in the next room with a deck of cards to play spades with, or reading his old Bible. He's young, and not aching or hurting anymore. He's not interacting with the present goings-on, but he's always watching and always smiling.
I think someone asked me, either on the way to the airport or once I got back to my team of camp counselors, if I felt any peace. I told them I couldn't feel more at peace. Because it doesn't feel like my grandfather's gone. He's much more alive than he ever was in all the years that I knew him.
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