THROUGH THE DECADES

                I remember, as a child, they were always there.  They would save us a pew as my mother and father worked to ready my sister and I for mass, and we arrived “right on time” or “just a little late”—same as I do with our children now. 

                 My grandmother and grandfather were there; pew saved, or a smile and wave from afar when eyes met, and it always made me glad.  I remember high fives from my grandfather and hugs from my grandmother during offerings of peace; running through aisles to see them on return from communion and belated offerings of these when seated apart from one another. d apart in the pews. 

                All my life, they were examples of our faith; and by them, my father, life, time, and discernment; my own belief and living of faith grew.

                I remember as a boy when my grandmother and grandfather taking me to a speech one of our Fathers gave in telling his personal story.  He had been a helicopter pilot for South Vietnam.  When Saigon fell, he flew his helicopter as far from shore as it would go and crashed it into the sea.  He was rescued and saved by the American Navy, and being pulled to ship and safely aboard: a man spoke to him of our Faith.  From that, he made his first movement on path and purpose to becoming a Catholic priest.  What I remember most of him is that as a boy, and with his accent, I had to focus and pay attention to what he spoke.  Without focus, I would not hear what it is he sought to say, but by listening and focusing, I could.  After learning his life story, I listened even more.

                I remember the way both my grandmother and grandfather smiled when our family sat with them for mass; the way my grandfather loved to sing, always seeking to sing deeper than was his natural range, and always the loudest one around.  I heard his voice once, in a different church and after he was gone.  To hear again the tone, inflections, energy, and spirit—and never looking up to see from whom it came, not wanting to lose the moment—touched me in my spirit, and after the song and mass were ended, I stayed in the pew with my tears. 

                I remember my grandfather teaching and sharing with me opportunities for service to others; cooking and serving meals at Saint Mary’s in Kansas City, Kansas.  He had a sliding plywood bottom in a little red truck with a camper top.  After early mass, we would wait in front of the church as parishoners arrived for main nine o’clock mass and dropped off preparations for the food kitchen meal.

                We would drive to the food kitchen.  He cooked.  I prepared, served, or cleaned—wherever I was needed.  My favorite was washing dishes and being able to look over the dining hall and listen to the gospel songs played and sang while everyone ate. 

                After everyone was served and the dining hall and kitchen cleaned, we would have a small meal from the leftovers that remained. 

                Like the loaves and two fish, there was always more than enough.

                I remember—as a husband, man, and father myself—when my grandfather became sick; my father telling me of how he looked and changed so fast and how soon after came diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.  I remember how it changed him at the end, one of the strongest men I knew left weak but—even in the end—displaying strengths and endurance those that did not know him would not predict. 

                I remember how he slept and rested, and how my grandmother stayed beside him praying her rosary through the decades as he took slow and deep breaths, waking less, sleeping more, speaking little.  You could read uncertainty, concern, fear for the coming unknown; all that goes unspoken but still noticed and understood when spirits are close. 

                I remember the last mass my father and I went to together before he passed.  It was the Feast of the Holy Family, and the first reading was from Sirach:

                “God sets a father in honor over his children; a mother’s authority he confirms over her sons.  Whoever honors his father atones for sins, and preserves himself from them.  When he prays, he is heard; he stores up riches who reveres his mother.  Whoever honors his father is gladdened by children, and, when he prays, is heard.  Whoever reveres his father will live a long life; he obeys his father who brings comfort to his mother.  My son, take care of your father when he is old; grieve him not as long as he lives.  Even if his mind fail, be considerate of him; revile him not all the days of his life; kindness to a father will not be forgotten, firmly planted against the debts of your sins—a house raised in justice to you.”

                We sat in the pew, listened, then looked at one another as the scripture spoke exactly what our souls needed to hear.  It was the first time I perceived scripture and divine message directly speak to me. 

                We returned after to my grandfather.  He was in bed, sleeping, and my grandmother was there: praying through the decades.

                When he passed, I read the scripture that called to my father and I that last mass seeking to give him honor as the passage spoke. 

                I remember the year after with my grandmother alone.  It was not long, and her own time came.  A different cancer, different symptoms and effects, but my favorite memory of that last period was a dinner with her and my family; the way she smiled and was so grateful to be with our children, and how they all gave her hugs and loved on her that day. 

                As with the passing of my grandfather, at her end, I received a message in the pew.  I don’t remember the readings, but I will never forget the homily.  Our Father read an entire chapter from Kent Nerburn’s book, Make Me an Instrument of Your Peace: Living in the Spirit of the Prayer of Saint Francis.  The chapter is called “The Cab Ride I’ll Never Forget.”  It was a personal story of how God placed the author in a specific place and time to be present for another. 

                As a cab driver, he was called late to a small home.  When no one came out to meet him, in anger, he almost left; but something in him called for him to check at the front door.  There was a little lady with a single suitcase, having trouble with the stairs.  He helped her with the suitcase down the stairs and to the cab, and when he asked her “where to” she asked him to see a certain place before driving to her destination. 

                She was going to hospice.  The suitcase was all she would have with her when she passed, but she wanted to see the place of a memory one more time before she departed.  He spent the rest of the night and into early morning driving her through the memories she wished to live one last time. 

                His chance for presence, and his gift to the woman, could have been lost—had he not listened to that small urging inside of him, calling him to “check.”

                When the story ended, in tears, I cried alone. 

                My grandmother never spoke again, and after days of sleeping without wake, she passed in peace. 

*****

                I miss them.  I love them.  I am grateful for the time memories, and especially the religion and faith they gifted to my life.

                I didn’t sleep last night: something on my mind, something in my spirit, who knows.  Whatever it was, I rose.  I read from the Bible, a memorial prayer card my grandmother–as well as one for my wife’s—serving as bookmarks to my readings.  I thought of them and my grandfather. 

                I lit a candle then took hold of a rosary, my grandmother’s, and prayed.  I prayed for them: memories, gratitude, and love—through the decades.