Grandpa Adair holding my first real baby, Felicity.
Yesterday, I tried to buy a sympathy card for a friend. Most of them said something like this: “May the wonderful memories of your loved one carry you through this difficult time.”
I have news for the card-writers of the world. Memories are not enough.
Take, for instance, my pastor and grandfather — J. Bryan Adair. He bought me my first baby doll when I uttered my first full sentence. He drove me hundreds of miles to church camp meetings (several times) even though he knew I was more interested in the cute boy in the third pew than in the faith we were celebrating. And, he bought me ice cream on the way home the year that boy broke my heart.
My grandfather baptized me, performed my marriage ceremony, and shared a table with me at every birthday, Christmas, and Thanksgiving for twenty-one years.
But, I can’t remember his voice.
Not clearly. The longer the gap between his death and my present life, the more dimly his memory shines. Until much of it feels more like legend in my mind than a reality I experienced.
I’ve lost many loved ones since Grandpa died in 1976. Family members, friends, grandbabies. And I’m more convinced about some things than ever. When my soul is lying on the floor, and I’m trying to stifle the urge to wail, memories bring no comfort. When the raw grief surges, and I burst into tears at the grocery store, memories offer no solace. When the shining, white stone beckons to me from the graveyard as I drive to work, memories inspire no courage.
Yet, I am not without hope. Because my grandfather left me with something much better than a memory. He left me with this:
For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we shall always be with the Lord. First Thessalonians 4:16-17
Put that in a Hallmark card and you’ll actually make a difference.
EXACTLY!!!!
Yep, that would do it.
Amen.
I LOVE how you are looking at Felicity in this picture. So precious. And not much different than the way you look at her now… or all your kids and grandkids for that matter 🙂
Oh, Kathy! I love the picture. You know how special your grandparents were to me, a little girl who had lost most of her grandparents at a young age, and so you shared yours. As often happens with us, we are on the same wavelength. I went to the cemetery today to put a flag on my dad’s grave. I miss my parents so much, but am also grateful they did not live long enough to bury their son. This cemetery holds six of my students who also died too young, my niece’s husband who was buried on his son’s 21st birthday, my dear Aunt Vanita, my grandparents, and my grandsons’ beloved Nanny Weber, who passed away in May. I walked among the stones and had a good cry. I received several sympathy cards after my brother’s death, and you know which words meant the most…the signatures of the dear friends who were thinking of me.
It’s true, Heather. I still look at all my babies that way.
Judy, I’m so glad we shared my grandparents (and so many other things). I have an especially fond memory of one Sunday when it was too snowy to get to church, and you had spent the night, and we had services in Grandpa and Grandma’s living room. We sang Amazing Grace. The Judy Collins’ version, as I recall 🙂
Whew – unexpected tears at the end of this – wow! Our hope in what is beyond this life is so precious; thanks for the reminder. This was beautiful, as always.