More Than Words Can Say
My Granddad came to pick me up one day after school when my parents were out of town. I was probably 13 or 14 years old. I had a CD player in the front room with me and being a very earnest mid-90s evangelical who wanted to be seen as mature, I was listening to Caedmon’s Call. You don’t need to know who they were just that the song that was playing when my Granddad came in the house had the refrain “This world has nothing for me / And this world has everything / All that I could want / And nothing that I need.”
As we got in the car, Granddad asked what I was listening to and I began philosophizing about the song. In my best attempt at profundity, I explained that our minds as Christians are supposed to be solely on heaven and when our gaze is on the eternal then we realize that this world indeed has nothing for us. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. In a very humble, straightforward way that likely had been with him since his farming days in Florida, Granddad simply said, “Well, there are loved ones.” After a moment of silence I mumbled, “Oh…yeah…you’re right.”
That conversation is never far from my mind. It is a core memory for me. Granddad believed fervently in following God in all that he did. My dad told me during a recent stint in the hospital that Granddad, while in great pain, would be praying and thanking God for the doctors, the nurses, and his children. Yet he never believed this world had nothing for him. Granddad demonstrated throughout his life that one of the main ways you love God is by loving the people around you.
Loving people is something that he and Grandma did so well. Their doors were always open. Their table was often full. I think nearly every one of their grandchildren had a stint in which they lived in their downstairs apartment. EA (who loves Grandma and Granddad as her own grandparents) and I lived with them for nearly two years early in our marriage. Granddad even allowed us to get a puppy even though he absolutely did not want a dog messing around in his backyard. They told us that they loved us and they showed us that they loved us. I want to be like them so much.
Granddad was a man of fewer words than Grandma. He was a great conversationalist and storyteller, but Grandma and I could talk for hours: about the books I was reading, what I was learning in school, about the Braves, the news, theology, whatever. Yet even though Granddad did not speak as much, his actions spoke loudly. And when he did use his words, they often resonated deeply. When I was ordained, everyone came to lay hands on me and pray for me: church members, friends, family. I cannot tell you what Granddad said to me. But I wish I could because it was the one thing that day that made me cry.
I have cried a fair amount today. Granddad had been in declining health for a while and about a week and a half ago, my parents told me that hospice thought he might not have much time left. Grandma died unexpectedly four years and unlike then there was time to prepare and find some closure. Yet nothing fully prepares you for losing someone you love and someone who loves and truly sees you. Granddad has been there from the beginning. And even though I knew this day would come, I could never imagine a world without him.
His death fully closes the chapter on two of the most special and amazing people I have known. We have incredible memories of Grandma and Granddad and their legacy will live on in us because love does not end. I will see them again one day, but, God, it hurts something fierce to not have either of them around anymore. Yet in the midst of that pain, I am grateful that Granddad left me with one more word.
Last week, I made my way down to South Carolina and visited with Granddad. I sat in his room in memory care with my two sons, his two oldest great-grandchildren; one of whom is named in part after him. Granddad wavered back and forth between consciousness. Most of the times that he was awake, I either couldn’t understand him or he was very obviously talking to people who weren’t in the room. But there were two times I did understand him.
The first was when he was asking what grade our oldest was in. Jim told him he was in 6th grade and I commented about how he is growing up faster than his mom and I would like. Granddad gave that grunt of approval that I’ve heard many times before.
The second time, I told him that I loved him. And he said, “I love you too, Christopher. More than words can say.” I will treasure that moment as long as I live.
I love you, we all love you, Granddad. More than words can say.
