Love Does.

January 12, 2019
Day 836

Thankful for time to celebrate my grandfather. This is what I wrote for his memorial service.

Love does.

-My sister and I like to go for drives.

We go for drives when we’re happy.

We put the windows all the way down, and the music all the way up.

We drive when we’re upset or sad.

We drive when we’re angry. We blast loud music and vent to each other.

The drive to see our Poppy in the hospital was one we had never been on before.

That cold, clear, dark night…we drove mostly in silence.

We prayed.

We spoke here and there.

But it was really just us, a new kind of drive, and the stars.

If it wasn’t for Poppy, I wouldn’t know just how many stars there actually are.

I can remember standing out in the wide-open spaces of my grandparent’s home in Maryland, far away from any light pollution, and breathing in cold, crisp night air while I marveled at the vast expanse of night sky and stars and moon.

If it wasn’t for Poppy, I wouldn’t know that the night sky is not black, but a very faint and deep, dark bluish purple.

If it wasn’t for Poppy, I wouldn’t know how small one feels under billions of twinkling stars.

I wouldn’t know that some twinkle red. Some yellow. Some orange. Some blue.

If it wasn’t for Poppy, I wouldn’t know what it was like to wake up in the morning in the country, and eat blueberry pancakes with blueberries that had been picked fresh that morning, and warmed by the sun.

If it wasn’t for Poppy, I wouldn’t know what an unripe persimmon tastes like. It’s almost impossible to describe except for this: it takes all the moisture out of your mouth instantly. I’ve never tasted anything like it before.

If it wasn’t for Poppy, I wouldn’t know what vegetables taste like when they are picked out of the ground and prepared not an hour later.

If it wasn’t for Poppy, I wouldn’t know the sound of the bobwhite bird. It makes a sound like this: Bob White. Bob White. I can still hear him say those words.

If it wasn’t for Poppy, I wouldn’t know that water from a well tastes sweet and fresh and that is sparkles in the sunlight as it pours out of the faucet.

-When my sister and I walked into the hospital room, it felt like we had walked into a broken dream. Or a battle lost.

When someone we love leaves us, we try our best to make sense of it. We reason with ourselves. But our souls scream at the way the world seems to so cruelly…go on. Our world has been crushed. Damaged. Altered forever. A part of us has been abruptly amputated.

Before Christmas, before my Poppy passed, I called him, and I prayed with him. I told him not to worry because I felt like God was going to give us a Christmas miracle. I felt like God was going to heal him and that he would be home with us for the holidays.

I think God wanted Poppy home with Him for the holidays, instead.

Poppy was a man who liked to adventure. He loved nature. He liked to go fishing. He liked to be outside. He loved trees. Poppy planted a cherry tree for us in front of our old town house, and that was the loveliest cherry tree I’ve ever seen. It was full of blossoms every spring. There were showers of pink petals every time the wind blew even just a little bit. He loved birds. Some time ago, there was a little bird that flew into the back door at my grandparent’s house and died. Instead of just tossing it aside, Poppy put it in a box, and dug a grave, and buried it. He made a cross out of twigs and placed it over the grave.

He watched over the sparrows.

Here’s what I’ve learned from my grandfather; from his life and from his death:

We should measure love in cups of coffee and slices of pie.

We should measure love in time spent around the kitchen table, talking and laughing and eating good food.

We should measure love in the seemingly mundane tasks like cleaning up the kitchen. The sounds of dishes and utensils clinking around in the sink sounds like home. And because home is the very best place to be, cleaning the kitchen can be a pleasure if we look at it the right way. Poppy never minded cleaning the kitchen. I think that’s because he knew that truth.

We should relish every moment we spend with our loved ones, even the dull ones. Even the ones that aren’t perfect. If we never had bad moments or bad days or even bad months, we wouldn’t know the freshness and joy of a good moment or a good day or a good month.

We should go adventuring. We should do things like buy boats just because. And then take those boats out on the water and see what we can see.

We should plant trees and lay under their branches in the spring and summer. We should collect their leaves in the fall. And decorate them in the winter.

We should plant fruits and vegetables and then share the harvest at a big breakfast with our families.

We should all love dogs. We should take naps with dogs. And pet them very gently. And go to Olan Mills and get our picture taken with them. And sometimes, even feed them from the table. Poppy loved dogs. He liked to nap with them. And if that doesn’t make sense to you, then I suggest you go home right away and nap with your dog. You will never have a better nap in your life. Poppy knew this well.

We should all say things like this, “Come up and see us sometime!” and, “You’re the prettiest girl in town.” Poppy had a simple way with words. When he spoke them, they were genuine and they mattered.

We should all spend time doing the things we love. If you like to fish, go fishing. If you like to plant trees, plant trees. If you like to watch football, watch it. Time spent doing something we love is time well spent. Poppy knew this. He did the things he loved to do. He talked about the things he loved to do. Shouldn’t we all aspire to be this way?

We should focus on the details that truly matter: hospital rooms don’t matter. Kitchens do. Orchards do. Gardens do. Grassy places do. Wide open skies do. Starry nights do. Love does. Poppy loved and he was loved. He loved his wife. And his family. And his grandchildren. And his great-grandchildren. In the end, isn’t that all that really matters?

I think God called Poppy home because heaven has been a little short of chestnut trees lately, and because what could compare to spending the holidays in heaven amongst the clouds and the angels?

And the more I’ve thought about it, that hospital room was not a room of broken dreams or a lost battle, but of a new beginning. When he closed his eyes in this world for the last time, he opened his eyes for the first time in a place with no more pain. And no limitations. Think of all the land up there just waiting to have a tree planted in it. Think of all the dogs that will have a new napping buddy. Think of all the birds that will now have a new caretaker. Think of all the boats just sitting along the watery places in heaven. Think of how twinkly the stars must look from the clouds. In that hospital room, there was only love left. So, if, at the end, the only thing that matters is love, why waste our time with anything less? Right now, you have the time to love your loved ones. Do it. Do not waste even one minute trying to prove a point, or win an argument. Just love one another. Care for the sparrows. Pet all the dogs. Take naps. Go see the sights in a boat. Hold hands. The time is now.

Just as Poppy watched over the sparrows, God was watching over him. And what we saw as a tragedy before Christmas was really a Christmas miracle in disguise. For our loved one left this earth as a person, and entered into heaven and became an angel. And when a person becomes an angel, there really can’t be any denying that a miracle took place.

We love you, Poppy. We will miss you greatly.