After Sunday's Easter gathering, it seemed apparent to all of us that my grandparents are not long for this world. Consequently, I thank my parents and my God for the chance to see them all and speak with them at least one last time before they die. You see, too often we put things off until tomorrow, leaving gifts ungiven and words unspoken that we tell ourselves matter only to show otherwise. I have a picture hanging in my office at home that I never got to give to my paternal grandfather, who passed away three years ago this month, and I keep his picture around too.
Although I learned when I was young that this mattered, I apparently didn't make it stick until recently. When my father left for war, I was twelve I think, and I remember praying and asking God that He would bring my father back so I could tell him that I loved him at least one last time. During high school and college, there were times when I wanted to make sure they knew in case something happened to one or both of us, because I had friends in high school who died before graduation and friends in college who got into huge trouble just short of death. The year my grandfather died, I didn't feel too badly about it because I had learned to be better. When I traveled to Salt Lake City biannually, I made sure to stop by, and I called every other month or so, replied to my grandmother's letters, and sent pictures and updates. I only learned that after I was divorced, but at least I learned it now. Two nights before he died, I spoke with my grandfather on the phone for about a half hour, and I was on my way to visit the morning that he died. I dropped by anyway.
With this in mind, I have tried very hard to leave on the screen the words that I most desire people hear. Even though people give me repeated opportunities to comment on their asinine banalities, when I am direct, I decide usually to leave them with what I desire them most to know. Sure, sometimes I hold courageous conversations, sometimes I burn bridges, and sometimes I hold my tongue. However, sometimes there is nothing more to say. I have spoken my peace, and I hope that certain days will yet rather than be days that pass ignominiously become days I commemorate. The 24th of April means something to me, because someone special associated with it still means something to me, and if I could, there are words I would say, gifts I would give, and things I would do to reaffirm that I absolutely love absolutely.
At my grandfather's funeral, some of my cousins appeared inconsolable. Some of them live much closer to my grandparents and do not visit as much as they could, but I visited as often as I dared and communicated with them with regularity despite living hundreds of miles away. As much as it hurts to lose them, while they were here, I did try at least while in adulthood to realize what they were when I had access to them. When I spoke with my widowed grandmother this weekend, I told her how much I appreciate her now and how much I wish I'd appreciated her when I was younger and could have benefited more from a close association. I came to realize that some of my cousins had regrets about words unspoken, visits unmade, and "some days" that never came. John Wadsworth Longfellow wrote, "Of all the words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these- it might have been." I did my part, and as sad as I am that things don't always turn out as I hope, it is some small consolation that I nourished when and what I could.
Words matter. Sometimes we say things that should not be said. Sometimes we make promises we cannot keep, and sometimes we do not mean the promises we make. Sometimes we keep back words that should be said. To be silent when they should protest makes cowards of men. Words can wound, but they can also salve. I have kept some words unspoken because they are not the lasting message, and I leave others for all the world to see because, at least for now, I still mean them. A few individuals who told me they didn't mean to hurt me had the opportunity to heal me. Instead, their silence deafens my ear. As the children's author wrote, "I meant what I said, and I said what I meant. An elephant's faithful, one hundred percent!" I am faithful. I try to live up to my word. Monday night in class, I delivered on a promise I made to a student two weeks before with something that may help her keep her job. I might not do what you like when you like, but I do deliver, because I was taught to be an honorable man. Furthermore, I have made other promises that I would like to keep if people give me the opportunity.
Time of loss offers us the opportunity to consider how well we say what we need to say. I wish sometimes that I had experienced loss of a family member when I was younger so that I could learn this lesson before I turned 30, but I thank God that when I learned it I was ready to learn it well. In the years since then, I have endeavored to be better and say things to people when I feel prompted and bite my tongue under similar conditions. I have gifts to give and words to say, and in some instances, I would simply reiterate the same things. If you meant something to me then, you mean something to me now. If you are still inclined to be part of my life, you meant something then, and so you mean something now. I cannot undo your choices, but I can decide how I regard them, and since I hope God will extend mercy to me, I stand ready to do the same. As He invites me to return, I extend the same opportunity.
The Word of God asked us to love our neighbors as ourselves. For this reason, He invites us to welcome back the prodigal, to continue to strive with the wayward, and to love people for who they are rather than on the contingency that they do what we prefer. Just as He loves us because of our natures, I continue to love some people because I know who they are and who they can be. I wish those well who made their decisions permanent. I still meant what I said. I still love them. I hope good things come their way. As much as I hope they do what I hope, their decisions do not make them bad people or unworthy of my love. Loving Christ means loving those who have earned the right to be strangers to us, to minister to them like the Good Samaritan. While it does not mean that we take them into our homes and give them all we have, it does require us to minister to their physical and spiritual needs, EVEN IF THEY HURT US. Even more, it requires us to really love those we say we love and who are close and dear to us. It's a hard rope to walk, and sometimes we don't learn how until it's too late, but there is a probationary period set and a repentance granted, which repentance mercy claims. I find it interesting in the last year or so what God has NOT told me. I find it interesting that He has told me to continue to love, to hold my peace, and to hold my tongue and leave things on the screen that truly reflect what I feel. He tells me to remember what He told me. He reminds me that even if His promises are not always swift, they are always sure. I hope you know how I feel about you, that even if I never get to hold you or speak with you or kiss you that I love you. I will show that by being true. When you seek me, you will know how to find me, and you will know how I will be when you get there.
A very merry unbirthday to you all, unless of course today is your birthday, in which case I hope it is the most amazing day of the year for you because you are amazing, because you are worth 10 cows and more.
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