The man I called “Grampaw” died this morning.
I grew up calling him Grampaw even though he wasn’t any
blood relation to me—he was just married to my grandmother. Whenever I called
him Herb (his real name) my grandmother would get irate, so I soon learned that
grandpa was Grampaw, even though he often reminded me that I was not his grandchild.
This is a short post because there was not a lot of love
between Grampaw and me, even though that was not really my choice.
I grew up wanting a relationship with my grandfather, but
never had one. For the last decade I have been keenly aware that he didn’t even
like me and found me annoying.
When his Alzheimer’s was diagnosed a few years ago, I felt
the detached sadness one feels at the news that an acquaintance has fallen into
misfortune.
Ironically, the nicest Grampaw ever was to me was last year,
after his illness had robbed him of the reasons why he disliked me. For one
brief visit he was smiles and conversation. Then I left… and now I will never
see him again.
More than sadness I feel hurt that he would never want to be
close to the almost-grandchild that wanted to call him Grampaw. But I still feel
sadness, too.
Growing up, I saw that Grampaw’s faith was not in Jesus, but in reason and logic.
While God wanted to call Grampaw his adopted son, Grampaw appeared to want none of that
relationship, either.
Since it was Grampaw’s wish for his body is to be donated to
science, there won’t be a funeral. In a way that’s fitting because he wouldn’t
have liked anyone to make a fuss over him. But as his body is donated to science
and no funeral occurs, I mourn the loss of someone I didn’t really know and who—to
my knowledge—did not really know Jesus.
So instead of a funeral, I pray for the man I called Grampaw. I hope he found a relationship with the One who loved him most.
