I was
four months old—wiggly, unsteady, little, dependent, and still relatively new
to the world around me. I wish I would have been older, but I wasn’t. I was
only four months old when my Grandpa died.
 |
| Our final (earthly) goodbye. A cherished photo. |
Though
I only got to spend four measly months with my Grandpa on earth…I know him. I
know him by the stories told by my Grandma, my dad, my mom, and others. I know
him by the letters he wrote. I know him by the journals he kept. I know him by his
pictures. And I know him by the tape recordings taken in the hospital on his
last day on earth. My Grandpa was a kind, gentle man with a big heart, and eyes
that could see the big picture.
My
whole life I have ached to know my Grandpa. And I have always tried to be like
him. For years I said my favorite flowers were purple and yellow pansies—because
those were my Grandpa’s favorite. For years and years I said it was okay to
have a bowl of ice cream every day, because Grandpa loved ice cream. For years
I dreamed of going to Germany because that was where my Grandpa was from. For
years I dreamed and dreamed of my Grandpa.
But
after finding more and more literature buried deep in my Dad’s closet, and in my Grandma’s
basement about my Grandpa, I didn’t have to dream anymore. I was able to read
his words. I was able to read his testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I
was able to come to know him.
So while when I was only four months old, he
passed away, my Grandpa lives on in our lives. He is here everyday, and he is a
part of me.
-Lizzy
S.
