Three years and five days ago my family and I said our goodbyes to a man I loved very much: my grandpa.
He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) when my mother was still very young. From the time she was a little girl, she had been told that he would not live to see her graduate college. Every prayer in her family included the phrase, "Please help us find a cure for MS."
And perhaps they did.
Considering after his first diagnosis some forty or so years before his death, he hadn't been expected to see his second eldest daughter, my mother, graduate college, the fact that he attended the graduation of his eldest grandchild, my sister, and died the proud grandfather of 17 grandchildren was nothing short of a miracle. His family never found the cure to give him back the movement and control of his body, but as a result of their love, support, and positive attitudes, my grandpa cherished his life with a spirit of hope, faith, patience, and gratitude, and surpassed all odds, dying at the remarkable age of 72.
Their cure was a simple one, with the most profound of impacts: Love.
When my uncles Todd and Brent were young, they saved their money to buy a bench press so that they would be better able to help take care of their father. My grandma spent countless hours dressing, shaving and caring for him, and everything he ate was fed to him one bite at a time by a hand as patient and selfless as the mouth it served.
That tradition of love and service forged their family together, and became a foundation and a legacy for his children and grandchildren.
I remember when we would come to visit, every morning my sister and I would stretch and strain with our young and undeveloped muscles to help crank Grandpa from bed into his wheelchair. We each also had our turns helping to feed him.
His disease, in the end, brought his family together in such a way that perhaps nothing else could have. Every summer, he and his family would go camping together, pushing and puling his wheelchair through the sand so that he could float peacefully in the waves that rolled in along the shore—one of the few times he was free of his wheelchair.
I never knew him without his wheelchair. The morning of his death, as I lay alone on my bed, listening to the rain outside patter against the window pain like the constant drip of morphine that was at that time entering his veins, watching the blinking red light on my alarm clock illuminate the otherwise dark room, I fought to suppress the feelings of regret and self-pity that accompanied the realization that he would be leaving us. He'd been a quadriplegic for forty years - all my life. Never had I the opportunity to toss a football with him in the backyard. Never had he read to me or walked down the street holding my hand. I'd heard he had a beautiful bass singing voice that I had never heard.
We played the games that he could play: chicken feet and Mormon Bridge. At night he would tell us bedtime stories, which always began with "once upon a time," because, he said, "That's how all good stories start", and ended with "they lived happily ever after," because that's how all good stories end.
When he came down to visit we would have cookouts in the fire pit in our backyard and he would eat all the burned marshmallows. We thought he liked them that way, because he always offered to eat them when no one else would, and so we, thinking ourselves so kind, would sometimes burn them on purpose for him. It was only when we were older that we learned he'd never liked them burned.
Whenever we had potato chips we would try and find the biggest one and see if he could fit it in his mouth without cracking it. If he did, we owed him a kiss.
I remember how every time when we went up to visit grandma's house, he would be waiting in his wheelchair, right inside the door, dressed to his best. He would greet us with a hearty "Hi-ya" and we would clamber onto his lap to give him a kiss, because "all kisses go to Grandpa."
Many times when I was younger I would go for a ride on his lap, making circles throughout the house. I would throw my arms around his neck and give him a big hug. But never had he been able to hug me back.
While we were up at my grandma's house this past week, we went to visit his grave. I looked over at my grandma and wondered what she could be thinking about as we sat around the tombstone on a grassy hillside, and my mind kept wandering. It's hard to think about death.
"I wonder what he's doing right now," I heard my grandma say.
"I'm sure he's busy. I'm sure he's running and swimming and singing and doing all the things he loved," my mother replied.
I remember when my mother told me he was going to die, and later informed of his death, there was a feeling of comfort, of peace. A few days later at his funeral, I had held the hand of my little brother as we stood together peering into the beautiful oak casket. I'd watched as he reached out his hand and laid it gently on that of my grandpa's, recoiling ever so slightly at the touch. "He's so stiff and cold," he whispered, "And he looks so sad." I'd smiled to myself as a tear rolled down my cheek. "That's because he's not there," I told him, "but I'm sure he's here with us now." I didn't have to explain for him to know what I meant. I could tell from the small smile glowing on his face, and the glint of warmth in his eyes that he understood.
That feeling of peace and comfort I'd had when my mom had told me he would die and later informed me of his death was there again as we sat around his grave. And I knew now, as I knew then, what it was. It was joy and hope; hope for the life beyond this one when I shall run up and hug him among the hosts of heaven. Joy, for when he can run and hug me back.
I'm so grateful for the knowledge of eternal families and of a life beyond this one where we can dwell with God. This life does not end. It's eternal. I am grateful for the sacrifice of God's beloved Son, Jesus Christ. I am grateful to know that He lives and that because He lives, all men shall live again. Because He lives, all things shall be restored to their perfect form, and shall be brought to stand before the bar of God.
I look forward to the day that I shall meet my grandpa there, standing to great me, and I shall hear his beautiful bass voice say "Hi-ya. Welcome home."
And we will live happily ever after. Because that's how all good stories end.
I love you Grandpa,
Brooke
