His Life, Well-Lived

As a child, I couldn’t understand his stoic nature, his quiet demeanor, his steadfast faith, his rigid self-discipline, or his exhausting work ethic. Eventually, though, I started to pay more attention to those around me, and I noticed that there was this look I could relate to--a mischievously crooked grin and quick waggle of the eyebrows--that let me know my grandfather. I grew into him, and now I realize it took me far too long.

Simply put, he was the best and wisest person I’ve ever known. He lived his life with an Old Timer knife in his pocket, a twinkle in his eye, and love in his heart. He adored the same woman for over 60 years and the same land for his entire life. He worked hard and loved deeply, but did both with quiet steadiness. And now, he is gone--gone from our sight, gone from his home, gone from our world.

There is no formal test at the end of a life, no real assessment of how well we did at living life. So, at the end, how will we know? How will we know that our lives were time well spent on this earth? How will we know that we have touched others, made a difference, and left a legacy? What proof exists of a life well-lived?

For this man, for Grandpa, there can be no doubt.

When we drop down into the valley, cross the bridge and see the family farm, the farm that exists for us because one man chose to spend his life on that farm, the farm that is our collective refuge from the world, we have proof.

When children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren rush to the hospital on a Friday morning, we have proof.

When we set our jaws with strength and resolve, even in the face of undiluted terror and unprecedented grief, we have proof.

When our laughter, true and deep, cuts through our tears, we have proof.

When a grown son holds his father’s frail hand in his own rugged grip and daughters tenderly whisper permission and reassurance, we have proof.

When generations proudly step forward to sit at a bedside through long days and nights, we have proof.

Today, we grieve. Today, we are envious of heaven and sad for ourselves. Today, we are quite human.

Nevertheless, his legacy does exist. When we carry on, move on, live on, with his strength, his courage, and his love in our hearts, we will be proof of his life well-lived.

Would You Like Those Tires Gift-Wrapped?

Tires. You want tires for graduation. No matter how many times I ask, how many chances I give you to change your mind, you want tires. "I don't want stuff," you say, "just tires."

Tires it shall be.

Tires to take you to college, to work, to wherever you decide to go.

Yes, the tires will take you, but I will let you go.

Of course I will miss you. I will miss your silent eye rolls when stupidity threatens to overtake a situation, your steady, strong presence in the school halls and your camaraderie in the yard, your guffaw that escapes when I least expect it, and your enduring grin that breaks through when I do expect it.

Still, I will let you go.

A lifetime ago, I wouldn't let you out of my sight, then I wouldn't let you out of the house. Eventually, the boundary edged the yard, the block, and our side of town. Now, the boundaries are nonexistent. Now, I don't want you to stop.

Now, you are ready.

When you offer a frail great-grandparent your solid arm, you prove you are ready.

When you follow the rules that matter and ignore those that don't, you prove you are ready.

When you do the right thing when nobody is watching, you prove that you are ready.

So use the tires. Use the tires and go. Choose your destination, follow your instinct, and disregard all boundaries.

Whatever you do, don't stop.