Sting

I'm typing this entry on my mom's iPad...the next one I write will definitely be on my laptop.

Recently I came across a quote by C.S. Lewis that says, 'Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret? There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.' And in the week (or so) ahead, this will be much on my mind.

For those of you who are friends of mine (I'm pretty sure if you're reading this blog, you're a friend - I don't think many other people read it) you'll know that my family has been watching the decline of a very close friend for a few weeks now. My adopted grandfather, now 86 years old, has been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis. For those not familiar with medical terms, your lungs need to expand when you breathe, and the walls of his lungs are hardening, which makes it difficult for him to breathe. It's only a matter of time before he suffocates. I have visited him every weekend for several weeks now and make it a point to call him when I can't make it home from school. They say he's doing better, but they said the same thing about my uncle the day before he died. To put it bluntly, I wake up every day expecting the phone call that he's gone.

Does this make me a pessimist? Not in the least. I am a realist, and I know the danger of getting my hopes up in an inevitably-hopeless situation. I think this gives me a clear vision when I look at him - I don't see the possibility of healing, but I don't necessarily see only the grief that will come with losing him. I see a very tired man who has lived a rich, full life. He's been married to the woman he loves for over sixty years. Though his own two children passed away about twenty years ago, he has been blessed with so many others who call him uncle, father figure, and friend. Since three of my grandparents are dead and we don't see our own grandfather often, Mr. Everett has become the only real grandfather figure who has been constantly around for my siblings and me. I remember waking up to the doorbell and, running to the door, finding no one there but a box of donuts, where he'd dropped them off and run back to his car before we could catch him. He's been there on birthdays and  holidays, and at Christmas my siblings and I would go to his house and sing carols with him and his wife. His carpentry - wooden pumpkins, painted snowmen with acorn eyes, a birdhouse with a bent license plate for a roof - still sit around our house.

When he was about my age, he went to the Pacific to serve his country n World War II. Though he still wears his veteran's hat, he has never said much about what happened there. Sometimes when we would visit them, I would watch him and think, 'What have you seen? What happened that is still so painful that you won't bring back the ghosts of sixty years ago?' Once I asked him if I could interview him for a school project, but he said he'd rather not talk about it. When I was little I always thought how cool it'd be to be the one he'd open up to and reveal his secrets to. But now that I'm older, I realize that he'll go to his grave with his secrets. And why shouldn't he? What good would it do to drag up all those memories again? Some things are best left alone.

When my mom and I were talking about him over lunch yesterday, I couldn't help but cry as I thought about losing this man I've know since my first year of life. But when I went to see him last night, he was joking and laughing, like he always used to. I will miss him terribly - how can you know someone for twenty years and not feel a void when you lose them? But how selfish it would be of me to ask him to stay. He told my mom the other day that he's just tired. I can see that when I look at him. But behind those tired eyes, underneath his ragged breathing and thin skin, I see no fear. When I look at him, I see a man who has had enough. He's not giving up - he just knows when it's time. He's ready to look his God in the face, to see his children, to breathe easy again, to erase the scars on his memory.

When I get to his place, I pray that I may have the same peace.

Prayers would still be appreciated for everyone involved. The next few weeks will be tough.