Sharing Grandpa's Final Lessons · 4:30am Dec 24th, 2019
Late last night, my grandfather fell asleep in the Lord. Having walked this earthly life for over ninety years, he shall now walk the next. I ask that you continue in your prayers, for my family and for the repose of his soul.
It would be tempting to see his death as a cruelty, coming so soon after he survived a surgery he had no business surviving. But I do not regard it so. When I first heard of his injury, I had a sense that this would be how it ended. Even when he survived the surgery, even as I updated those who I had asked to pray, I instinctively felt he would not recover. Somehow, I knew it was his time. I’m simply grateful we had those precious extra days with him. Those moments were, truthfully, a final Christmas gift from him before he was called home. Now, I choose to share a piece of that gift with you.
My grandfather was a practical man, you see. He taught us all many things about maturity, virtue, honor, and family. I learned more than I could ever put into words from him. Even in his final days, he still had things to teach me. Out of respect for him, and for his practicality, I choose now to share his final three lessons in the hopes that they may one day be of service to you. I believe he would like that.
The First Lesson
Death is an inevitability. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, we all know that one day we must die. Earthly life is finite, and, if we are to be happy, we cannot ignore the plain fact of our mortal ends.
There is an ancient expression: Memento Mori. Remember death. The purpose of this exhortation is not to fill us with undue dread or melancholy, but to awaken us – to prompt us to consider the questions which really matter in life:
What sort of life have I lived?
Were I to die this instant, would I leave the world better than when I found it, even if only by a little?
When I am called to give account for my life to the One who gave it to me, what would I be able to say for the state of my soul in my final moments when there are no more chances to change and the final state of my heart is laid bare?
My grandfather was not one to passively give up the fight. He fought for his life until the end and, indeed, he lived longer than most men would against such injuries. All the same, he knew he might not live to see tomorrow. He knew he might not have other chances.
I have only seen my grandfather cry twice in his life. Once, when my grandmother died. The second, the night before this fateful surgery – the last time he was really conscious and in full possession of his faculties.
That night, the priest came to give him his final consolations and prepared him to meet his Maker. As my grandfather lay in excruciating pain and the priest spoke to him of hope and love, my grandfather cried tears of comfort and joy, knowing that his family would be looked after, and knowing that the One who made him was ready to receive him.
There is no more important question in life than that of the end. My grandfather was not a perfect man. None of us are. But, as the priest reminded him, we shall soon celebrate the birth of the One who came to die so that ALL us poor sinners may live.
Grandpa’s pain did not go away when the priest reminded him of this. Instead, the pain became less important than the consolation. Though too physically weak to continue to care for his family as he had in years past, Grandpa nonetheless conveyed this lesson – a reminder of the hope and strength we are offered in our weakest moments. A particular joy found only in the midst of sorrow.
The Second Lesson
Shortly after receiving the Last Rites, the heavy pain medicine caused Grandpa to slip into a state of semi-consciousness from which he would not awaken, even after the surgery. He could not make judgments or really comprehend what was happening around him. Last night, I saw him in that state. It was frightening and painful in ways I cannot adequately put to words.
My family are doers and helpers, to the point of being compulsives. We instinctively jump in to solve problems and have to train ourselves to set boundaries. Imagine, then, my pain, seeing a great man, a man I loved, be laid low. And there I was, unable to do anything about it. I felt utterly helpless.
In this moment, at a time when he literally was not capable of choosing to do something like this, Grandpa stubbornly taught me a lesson.
Typical of him, really.
You see, being helpless is as much an inevitability in life as death. We are finite creatures, with control over very little. Even the most powerful people in history have faced intense limitations, wielding true authority over relatively few matters in the grand scheme of things.
Now, we must all face helplessness some time or another. If nowhere else, we shall at least experience it at death. We can confront it one of two ways:
We can dread it, resent it, hate it, avoid it, deny it, fear it, do anything we can to reject it and, in doing so, condemn ourselves to misery and failure.
Or… we can take hold of reality, accept our smallness, and reframe our view to focus not on the things we cannot control, but on the few things we can.
Last night, all I could do was hold Grandpa’s hand as he laid in pain. Hold his hand and try to talk to him. But hold his hand I did, and into that simplest of human gestures I poured my heart, my love, and my compassion.
I could not take away his pain. I could not heal his leg or his head. I could not drain the fluid from his chest.
But I could hold his hand and talk to him. So I did.
Success in life is not measured by whether or not we do grand things. It is measured by whether or not we lovingly do what few little things we can.
So he gripped my hand and took comfort from it. And, in his weakened, semi-conscious state where he could barely comprehend what was happening around him, I managed, just once, to make him laugh.
What a precious thing, to elicit a laugh in such times! Without knowing it, Grandpa gave me a gift I will carry with me in dark times for years to come – the knowledge that I brought comfort to a dying man with my meager words and a simple grip of the hand.
More than that, he taught me this lesson: That there is a strength and power unlike any other that we wield only in our weakest moments. That even in the dark night at the edge of death there is dignity and courage to be found in such abundance as to put our daylight courage to shame.
The Third Lesson
It is always hard to lose a loved one. It is especially hard so close to a day of celebration and joy. There is no doubt that this Christmas will carry an uncommon somberness.
Yet I do not make the mistake of saying this Christmas is tarnished. To do so would be to make the mistake of thinking that grief and joy are enemies.
Love is often associated only with positive emotions – with joy and affection and celebration. Yet love is more than that. Love is sacrifice. Love is grief. Love cannot exist without the laying down of one’s self in some way, whether great or small.
Grandpa laid down his whole life in serving his family, from the first odd jobs he worked as a child carrying his family through the Great Depression to the final lessons he gave at the end. To not grieve for him would be an injustice to the man who loved us so much.
And yet, grief for his passing does not diminish the preciousness of my nieces and nephews as they play around the house, or the comradery of my siblings and cousins, or the bonds of my parents, aunts, and uncles. Grief does not contradict the joy at our coming together. It does not oppose the excitement as we express our love for each other in gifts and in merry-making. And, of course, it does nothing to undercut the celebration of the Word Made Flesh coming among us, especially when we stop to consider the Word upon the Cross.
This Christmas there will be tears. There will be laughter. There will be sorrow. There will be joy. I do not imagine there will be strong lines separating them, and there needn’t be. Passionate love is a raw, open thing, courageous in its vulnerability and honest in the complexity of emotions.
We should never believe the lie that sorrow must destroy joy, or that joy must supplant all sorrows. Life is a parade of both, and happiness demands that we embrace both, that we may allow our sorrows to become joys as they teach us what is important.
This Christmas, we do not celebrate in spite of Grandpa’s passing. We celebrate with his memory, embracing the courageous vulnerability of love and flexing the strength found in frailty. In this we find a richness of passion which, as we accept it into our hearts, shall bring us closer together. Because, even parted from us in this life, Grandpa can’t help but take care of his family.
This, then, is our Christmas miracle. Our Christmas gift. A few precious last days which we almost didn’t get, and three precious final lessons to carry with us for the rest of our days until we may see him again. For this gift, I shall be forever grateful.
On behalf of my family, our thanks to all of you who have offered words of comfort to us. You have brought great consolation to my family in showing such compassion to strangers. To those of you who prayed, know that your prayers were answered. Please continue to keep my family, in particular my grandfather’s children, in your prayers these coming days.
Whatever your beliefs, I wish you all a Merry Christmas. May these final lessons from a great man be in some way a gift to you, something to carry in your hearts throughout your own struggles. Know that there are times and seasons to all things upon this earth, to both joy and sorrow, pain and delight. Sadness does not forbid happiness, and you may find love in all times. To those of you who have lost loved ones, I especially offer this last lesson: your tears need not go unaccompanied by laughter.
Grandpa, you walked ninety Christmases upon this earth. I am confident that you will hereafter spend them with Grandma within the heavenly embrace.
Rest in peace, Grandpa. We love you, now and always. And, to all, Merry Christmas.
While it breaks my heart to hear this, I am so grateful for these powerful words and reflections that you have taken the time to share with us.
Know that I will keep you and your family in my prayers in a special way during this difficult time.
I will see to it that a mass is offered for the repose of your grandfather's soul.
The Lord bless and keep you my friend, now and always.
My most sincere condolences to you and your family on your loss. I pray for peace for all of you during this time of mourning.
Thank you, for sharing the love and lessons your grandfather taught. You know this, but that kind of good can spread far. My sympathies, and also my gladness for the grace you had at the end.
Well said, as always.
You and your family will be in my prayers this season.
I'm not good at these kind of things, so I guess the only thing I can say is I am sorry for your loss my friend.
O7 i salut your old man may he rest in peace.
You have my condolences. Losing a grandparent, or any loved one, is never easy but perhaps you may take solace in the fact that, as you pointed out, he is with the Lord now.
From your description, he seems to have been a good and wise man, at least by human standards. The lessons he taught you are valuable and I thank you for passing them on to us.
Additionally, those last days he had with you seems a most precious gift, perhaps even more so now that he can no longer give you the most precious commodity of all: his time.
May God bless you in this trying time, Antiquarian. I will keep you in my prayers.
Your grandpa sounds like he was a good man, and a good person. The world is clearly lesser in his passing.
You too strike me as a good person, so it's clear that his legacy is carried on.
Not sure what else I should say after that so uh, happy holidays and merry mourning I guess.
I'm sorry for your loss
My condolences, though you have taken some excellent lessons from your grandfather's passing. A final gift from him to you; very fitting for the season. Here's hoping you and yours have an otherwise peaceful Christmas.
When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul
It is well
With my soul
It is well, it is well with my soul
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul
It is well (it is well)
With my soul (with my soul)
It is well, it is well with my soul
My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, o my soul
It is well (it is well)
With my soul (with my soul)
It is well, it is well with my soul
It is well (it is well)
With my soul (with my soul)
It is well, it is well with my soul
-Horatio Spafford
Prayers sent your way. Have faith, you will see him again.
I'm no Christian. I can't pray; I don't really have faith, so, for me, praying feels like an empty gesture, like... like I was taking God's name in vain, something like that. I feel like if I, as a faithless man, were to "pray", I would be being tremendously disrespectful. So, upon hearing (well, reading) that your grandfather had had an accident, I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what. I have been keeping him in my thoughts, but I'm not sure that's a proper, or even sufficient, replacement for praying. For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry.
I am saddened by the news of your grandfather's passing. Especially after yesterday's update about him surviving the operation. My deepest and sincerest condolences to you and your family. May he rest in peace; may his lessons and teachings live with, and through, you forever; and may you and your family all have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
My condolences :(
It's always rough to lose a loved one; I remember when my last grandparent died, and I was unable to attend the funeral due to my own medical issues. Broke my heart in painful ways.
And while you said that this shall not "tarnish" this holiday season for you, I'm certain it will be a bit painful regardless. I pray that pain shall be lessened in the comfort of others :)
I've never met you, and likely never shall in this life. But it is my dearest honor to grieve along with you, and exult in your grandfather's newest estate. I'm deeply grateful to 5174168 for quoting one of my favorite hymns ever. If it's all the same, I'd like to add the verse which was penned well after the original verses; these are my favorite lines of the hymn, and precious few from any other come close.
And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back like a scroll,
The horns shall resound, and the Lord shall descend;
Even so, it is well with my soul.
And a song for you. Please enjoy, and keep striving for harmony.