I recently had the honor of helping my grandparents pack up their home of 30+ years as they moved into an apartment. The task of the day was going through all of the clothes in their main bedroom’s closet – and it was a big job for my grandma and me.
We went through decades of clothes together as my grandpa sat in the back sunroom, where he spent much of his time. We knew we would be donating most of it and keeping some- I think it was better he didn’t see.
It was a long and emotional process, as I watched my grandma’s reaction to different pieces of my grandpa’s clothing that I held up for a final decision.
Keep or donate?
I could see the memories flash through her mind.
69 years married to my grandpa, and a St. John’s Bay polo shirt for every one. My grandparents kept Kohls in business.
We went through it all. Even back then, months before he passed, my grandma and I picked out a suit he would someday wear for his burial.
They were both healthy at the time, but it still felt a little like a death; the move was the ending of a chapter in that home- a chapter that was essentially me, my sisters’ and my cousins’ entire life.
The night before we went through their closet, I unexpectedly had dinner alone with my grandparents, and it will forever be one of my favorite memories with them.
I hadn’t planned on coming, but I popped in that evening and when I got there, the dinner time energy was beginning; it was 4:45pm after all. So I stayed.
They had a glass Tupperware of frozen spaghetti my aunt had prepared for them. Looking at my grandma in her wheelchair and my grandpa in his walker, I wondered how they did this every night.
I got to work defrosting the spaghetti and getting the bagged salad out of the fridge with the French dressing.
I put portions in a bowl and my grandpa promptly put half back- they didn’t have much of an appetite anymore. The man that would count his shrimp at restaurants for informational purposes and eat every last one wasn’t the eater he used to be.
As I served them dinner, I felt a sense of pride at the honor it was to serve them in this way. They cared for and loved me all my life; what a privilege to be sprinkling Parmesan over their spaghetti and eating dinner with them on that Thursday night.
We sat down at the table and my grandpa prayed. I was so happy to be there. It was one of those moments that as it was happening, you knew it would stay with you the rest of your life.
The three of us sat at their small round dining table and we began to eat.
It was quiet and I looked around the house.
Emotions came over me. The house was listed and being sold in a matter of days. I knew this was my goodbye to it.
The grandfather clock that chimed and the china cabinet that hadn’t moved from its spot in 30 years.
The sunroom that was always 90 degrees.
I was 34 eating dinner with my grandparents, but then I was 6 years old opening presents in the corner of the living room by the Christmas tree.
I was 8 years old performing skits with my cousins for hours in the basement, crying when we had to leave.
I was 12 eating pumpkin pie and listening to Christmas music with Grandma’s fresh whipped cream on Thanksgiving night.
I was 15 years old, running from down the road and bursting into the house to tell them how my mom was ruining my life.
I was almost 35, having dinner in the house for the last time.
A lifetime of memories in the most comforting home I have ever known.
I sobbed and told them I wasn’t ready.
They assured me I was ready to say goodbye to the house and to them, and that this is what happens.
It’s natural.
It may be one of the most natural losses we can experience – the loss of a grandparent – but what their loss means for my family is anything but.
This may seem odd, that I wrote this while they were both still alive – but the reality was, I knew there wasn’t much time left with them, and I wanted them to know what they meant to me.
“It’s just the beginning,” my grandpa told me as I cried to them that night.
He had 93 years on earth, but all eternity to look forward to, with his Savior, and he knew it.
Dinner at my grandparents started the process of grief, and also opened a deep well of gratitude for the incredible life they have lived and shared with me.
That night will always be one of the most sacred with them. It was almost as if I was started saying goodbye even though they were both still there.
The grief will continue as my grandpa has now passed into eternal glory, and although he was ready, the pain of his loss and what that means to my family is still sharp.
He was a faithful, wonderful man and a loving, caring grandfather.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to my grandpa last weekend during his last moments, but the last time I saw him, I snuggled up to him on the couch.
“You have a peach, you know that?” He said to me, looking over at my husband Max. He loved Max.
“And you’re a peach,” he added. I am the granddaughter after all.
I left their apartment and wrote those words down in my phone. I just knew I needed to remember them.
My grandpa was not overtly doting with his words, so those two lines are very special to me. I knew what he meant. I knew he loved us so very much.
So today we honor his life, and are thankful for the family he built. I am so grateful to have had 35 years knowing him and loving him.
Each year I sent him a birthday card on March 29, I wondered which would be the last.
This year, at 93, I sent his last one, but because of his faith in Jesus, it is just the beginning -in my grandpa’s words.
The round table from dinner that night now sits in my dining room. It already shows more abuse and crusted food and marker stains in a few months than they probably had in decades. But as I homeschool my daughter and watch my son color, and eat dinner with my own little family, I will think of them. I will think of him. I will remember him and his life, love, faith and prayer, and the life full of memories I was blessed enough to have with him.
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