My Missing Marshmallow

            My Granddaddy was… akin to a marshmallow.

            He was huge. 6 foot-something, weighing 300 pounds or so, and he had a heart to fit the body. He was as warm as a person could be; with a deep voice and a country accent, he was a person that I could talk to about anything. He never made me feel silly or insignificant. He listened to me like I was the most important person on the face of this earth. I meant something to him, and he proved that to me constantly. 

            I don’t remember ever feeling like I couldn’t tell him something, or like he would judge me for something I said or did. I just remember feeling completely comfortable. Talking to him and spending time with him... it was like coming home.

            He was a funny, funny man…

            He loved older songs. “Oh, you’re ugly”, “5 foot 2” and “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” are the ones I remember the best.

            One time, he took me to get my allergy shots. (I was allergic to my heavenly cat, so I got shots to help me… breathe.) I got them every week, and I was becoming quite the pro at accepting the pain.

            Anyway, it was a rainy day, and for some odd reason, he and I were the only ones in the waiting room. Usually there were several people there, but on that day there had only been one, a woman, who had gotten her shot and left.

            A nurse poked her head out into the waiting room and said that it would be a minute before they could see me.

            So, I just slumped back against the bench with Granddaddy on my right. I snuggled my arm underneath his. My legs were too short to touch the floor, so I mindlessly kicked them back and forth. He was humming “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” and, (because of him) I knew the song by heart.

            I started murmuring the words quietly, and then he stopped mid-hum and began to sing along with me.

            Before I knew it, we were both singing at the top of our lungs, laughing between verse and refrain. I was dancing around the waiting room, doing my own motions to the words…

            I can never hear that song now without thinking of that day.

            After several years of poor health, my Granddaddy could hardly walk. His legs could not support his large frame.

            I didn’t quite understand what that meant at the time. I only knew that one day Grandmamma, the other kids and I went to get him a powerchair from the Scooter Store.

            That chair became the center of many childhood memories; riding around Grandmamma and Granddaddy’s yard, marveling at the wonder of the leather seat and its very small speed. It was a happy thing.

            I remember when he first got the chair; he and I went on a walk.

            It is the first time I can remember that we had ever walked anywhere. Of course, neither of us actually walked.

            He was in his powerchair, I was on my rollerblades; but still. We were outside. Together.

            We chit-chatted about yellow butterflies and obnoxious neighborhood dogs. He said we could finally go to the mall together! And he promised me that we would.

            Moving steadily beside him, I could imagine proudly walking through stores with my Granddad. How fun it would be! I couldn’t wait!

            …Unfortunately, it never did happen. He and I never did go to the mall together. But it’s okay… even in that moment when he promised that we would, I knew it would be okay if we never made it to Macy’s or the American Girl’s Store; because we did go on that walk… And that was enough.

            There are so many little memories of him that I have.

            I wish I could re-live them all… or see them again. I thank God for memory. Because in my memory, my Granddaddy is still alive, singing “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” in his deep, southern voice…

            It was a Friday.

            Mama had dropped us off at Grandmamma and Granddaddy’s house for the afternoon. She had told us to ask Granddaddy if he would read 2 chapters of the book, “Pocahontas and the Strangers” to us, since we hadn’t finished that part of our History lesson before we had left our house.

            Mama handed the book to me.

            We, (William, Robert, Elizabeth and I), all ran into the house. We kicked off our shoes and hugged Grandmamma, who was in the kitchen.

            Then we all went back to Granddaddy’s Den, where he sat, reading his Bible which rested on a green-foam prop in his lap.

            He had his gold-color-brimmed, square reading glasses on, and he was starring at the page in front of him, pen in hand.

            That is the one outstanding, constant memory I have of him. He was always reading his Bible the moment before we ran into the room. Before he completely realized that we were bounding down the hall, he was engrossed in God’s Word.

            And then, as always, he looked up at us and smiled, laying aside his Bible and the foam prop. We all hugged him, and sat and talked for a minute.

            “Granddaddy” I said, “Mom asked me to ask you to read this book to us.” I gave him the Pocahontas book. He agreed, and then we all bounded off to play.

            Well, we all forgot about reading the book.

After a while, Mama came to get us. She walked in and visited with Grandmamma for a while, but we had to get home for dinner, Dad was on his way from work, so we had to get going. So, with a day full of Play-Doh creations and crayon drawings under our belts, my 3 siblings and I piled into the car.

            Just as Mama was putting the car in reverse, I remembered the forgotten book.

            “Mom! I left the book in Granddaddy’s Den.”

            I figured she would ask Robert to go get it. Robert was the fast one, he was like The Flash, and… whatever it was he’d gotten in the gene pool, I had missed out on. In a big way.

            But, surprisingly, she asked me to go get it. “But hurry” she said.

            So, into the house I ran, bounding back into Granddaddy’s den.

            Once again, he was leaning over his Bible.

            “Hi! I left the book.” I said, as I grabbed it from the table.

            “Oh, alright.” He said with a smile.

            “Well, I gotta go, so bye Granddaddy! See you on Monday!” I said, leaning over to hug him.

            The Bible was still in his lap; the book was in my hand, pressed against his shoulder. I was leaning over, one flip-flopped foot in the air, my tangled hair was in my face, and my glasses were lop-sided as I pushed close to him. It was a pretty day, and from the window behind his chair, the sun streamed in on our embrace.

            The hug only lasted for a moment.

            I stood up straight, and started out of the room.

            “Bye Sweetheart! I love you!” He called to my back.

            I spun around, smiled big, and waved. “Bye Granddaddy! I love you too!”

And that was it.

I spun back around, running down the hall, back to the car.

I jumped into the left backseat, buckled, and looked at my Grandparent’s house.

It was a safe place.

I still hadn’t told Granddaddy about my horseback riding competition!

Well, that could wait until Monday.

I’d see him then, and he’d wish me luck!

I sat back and smiled, feeling a little guilty that we hadn’t gotten to read the book. It was probably my fault, I should have remembered. We’d just have to read it later…

It was Sunday, September 12, 2004.

All I remember is being called into the Den. I was wearing my light blue, long sleeved shirt with the big star in the middle. It was a special shirt; I’d worn it when I held baby lambs for the first time!

Grandmamma was over. I didn’t know she was coming over today!

I sat on our blue footstool, waiting to hear what Mom, Dad, and Grandma had to say. I must’ve done something wrong… I guess they wanted to talk about a fight us kids had at Grandma’s the other day… I felt a little sick as I sat down.

“Are we in trouble?” one of us kids asked.

My parents shook their heads.

Then what?…

With just a few sentences, my whole life changed.

He was gone. My teddy bear Granddaddy was gone.

It didn’t seem real.

Please, I thought, please, let this be a joke. This isn’t right! I’m supposed to see him tomorrow! We are going to celebrate Elizabeth’s birthday! I just saw him 2 days ago! He was fine! He said he was feeling better! He was sick for 3 days, but then he was feeling good! He told me so! He said he was getting better! His new diet was working! He was going to be okay! He told me so himself!!! I just saw him! I just… I just saw him.

It seemed surreal. The man who had always been there suddenly… wasn’t. He had never been gone before. He’d always just… been there. How could he be gone? It wasn’t possible. I knew people died, but… Granddaddy?

It took a long time for it to really sink in...

During the visitation, he had an open casket, and there he lay, just like he was sleeping.

My cousin stood next to him, holding his limp hand, crying so hard her face was red, her eyes matched, and her nose was swollen. I wished I could cry like that.

But all I saw was my sleeping Granddaddy. He’d been so warm and happy the last time I saw him. I wanted to hold his hand like my cousin was; but his hands were so cold and lifeless. They were nothing like the hands that I had known him to have; the hands that had held me as a baby. And as I got older, the hands that had grasped ‘Go Fish’ cards and checker pieces and caught me in the ‘Granddaddy Grip’. They were warm, welcoming hands. But now…

It wasn’t right.

As I stood over him, for a moment I thought I saw him breath.

New hope sprung into my heart. I held my breath, waiting. He wasn’t really gone! He’d just breathed! Dead people don’t breathe! He wasn’t really gone!!! I knew it! I knew it! Everyone was wrong! It was a miracle! He’s still-

Then it hit me…

No… he hadn’t breathed.

I had just wanted him to so badly that my mind had played a trick.

No matter how long I stood there, waiting, watching, biting my lip in anticipation, he just laid still.

He was gone.

And it was like I’d lost him all over again.

I avoided the casket after that; playing with other kids came easily. I wanted to grieve like my cousin was, like my mom was, but I couldn’t.

So I laughed and played with the other 9 year olds. My best friends were there. I felt so wrong having fun, but it was easier than being in that room. One of my friends told me that I shouldn’t be crying, because she’d lost her granddad years before I had, so if anyone should be crying, it should be her. I knew she was wrong, but being mad at her gave me something else to think about…

The funeral was so hard. I sat next to my mom, who was crying so hard that her whole body shook. I’d never seen someone cry like that…

I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around the fact that my Granddaddy, the warm, affectionate, kind man I loved was in that box. I couldn’t believe it.

The next few weeks were a blur.

I just remember that his Den was sacred to me.

I’d forget that he was gone, and I’d run back there to give him his usual hello-hug. I’d throw open the door, expecting to see him sitting in his chair, but instead I would find myself alone. I’d be confused for just a moment, but then I’d remember… he would never be there to hug me again…          

So, I would close the door behind me, and kneel in the dark room, my folded hands in the air, my elbows resting on my Granddaddy’s chair. I would pray, thanking God for all He had given me, and then I would say, “And God, would you please tell Granddaddy…”

I told Granddaddy all sorts of things; just like I had when he was alive. I told him how sad Mama was, and how much I missed him. I told him about my horseback riding competition and the ribbons I had won. I told him about the stray dog, Rocket, (who Granddaddy had disliked so much) how he was still hanging around, waiting on food, just like Granddaddy said he would.

I told him about anything and everything, just to talk to him.

And when I’d run out of things to say, and my face was wet from a few quiet tears, I would tell him again how much I loved him and that I would see him soon. Then my prayer would direct back to God Himself, “Lord.” I’d say, “Thank you for letting me say goodbye.” I’d remember that last sentence he spoke to me, “Bye Sweetheart! I love you!” I’d be quiet for a moment, re-living the moment, and then I would continue, “And God… if you could… let me have one more hour with him, please? Just… one more hour…”

I added that last request for what seemed like forever.

You see, if I had one wish, I would not wish that my future children would all be perfectly healthy and happy for their whole lives, or that my marriage would be completely wonderful, or that there would be an end to World Hunger, or anything else.   
Maybe those things should be what I would wish for, but from that Sunday when I learned that one of the staples in my life was gone; my wish has always been for just one more hour with my Granddaddy.

People tell you that things like this get easier with time. And in a way, they do. I don’t think about my Granddaddy constantly, I go weeks without even mentally acknowledging his existence.

But, it really hasn’t gotten much easier.

He died when I was nine years old… Nine.

And I missed out on so much.

Due to my young age, I had no idea what an amazing relationship I could have had with him. I was too little!

But oh, what I would give to sit at his feet and listen to him talk, just once more; to really listen.

I miss feeling like I would not be judged when I was around him. I miss telling him about my life, and seeing pride in his eyes. I miss him listening to me like I was the most important person in the world.

It has been 7 years.

I am now 16 years old.

I have so much to learn, and I wish he were here to help me learn it.

I wish I could call him up, and ask him to pray for something. I wish I could break out in song with him again, singing “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” with no regard for any other person around.

Every now and then something amazing will happen. I’ll make new friends, I’ll have an inspiring conversation with someone, I’ll perform in a play, or write a new story.

And in those moments, I wonder what he would say.

In those moments, I wish I could hear his voice.

In those moments, I wonder if he would just hug me, or say something that I would remember forever.

In those moments, I miss him.

And after those moments, I cry, simply because there is still a big marshmallow-sized hole in my heart.

That does not go away.

I don’t care what people tell me; my Granddaddy will never be replaced.

I wonder what he would say to me now. What advice he would give, what words of encouragement he would have for me… I wonder if he would be proud of the person I am becoming…

I miss him more than I have ever missed anything in my whole life...

But I know I’ll see him someday soon. Just like I knew when I was nine. He is in Heaven; he is in God’s Holy Presence living in Eternal Peace…

And one day, I’ll be there too.

One day, we’ll sit together in the Presence of our Lord.

One day, we’ll walk to streets of gold together.

 And that One Day will last forever.

Inspiration

Inspiration is a weird thing, isn’t it?

            Someone can say the same sentence to many different people, something like, “Stop and smell the roses” and many will roll their eyes, ignore the old saying, and go on with their day. And yet, every now and then, there is an individual who will take that saying to heart, and they will stop, for just a moment, and take the time to look at life around them. They will have been inspired by that saying to do something different than their usual, maybe something different than everyone’s usual.

            Of course, there are many different kinds of inspiration. There are books and songs meant to inspire people to do something differently, or to think in a different way, or to be a different way.

            There are sceneries that inspire people to write or to draw or to pray.

           

            I think basically anything can be an inspiration.

            Anything relatively innocent that, when looked at in a different light, can create a thought or an idea which can them bloom into a meaningful decision.

            Inspiration is a powerful thing. It has the power to change people, to change whole communities if the entire group gets inspired by the same thought. And it’s a very strange thing as well. Something ordinary can bloom inspiration, something that most everyone overlooks.

            And then there are inspirational people, people who stand away from the crowd, and they stand for what they believe is right. That doesn’t always mean that they’re standing on a stage yelling about how right they are. It just means that they live their life in a way that people can learn from, in a way that makes others examine their own lives… in a way that makes others want to change for the better.

            And I think the most inspirational people are people who don’t TRY to be inspirational. They’re the kind of people who simply live their life the way they believe God wants them to be living it; humbly, constantly trying to conform their lives to His Word.

            They’re the kind of people who love selflessly, who greet you with a smile and ask you how your day has been. They’re the individuals who leave their fingerprints all over a very small number of people. They’re the ones who really make a difference in other’s lives, and the reason they make a difference in that life is simply because they care.

            I think inspirational people are caring people. People who really make others want to be better are the kind of people who honestly care about ‘the other guy’.

            They are selfless, loving and kind.

            They are completely unaware that others look up to them; they are simply living life the way they believe is right.

            I have never been inspired to do, or to be, or to think anything different than my usual by a person who stands on a stage, or wears fancy clothes, or flashes fame like it belongs to them.

            Those people do not inspire me.

            The people in my life that have made me want to be better are people who have simply lived and loved. They are people who have filled my life, who have cared for me, who have cared about me. They are people who have most definitely left their fingerprints on my life and I will never forget them. They are the ones who have shown me, by example, that I can be better than I am; that if I look to God and trust Him, then He can shape me into a real Christian. I have a long way to go, but I will always have these people to look to for encouragement.

            Not many people are inspirational.

            Too many people are looking for fame, too many are looking for the title of ‘inspirational’ but they really don’t know what it means to inspire.

            No.

            The real inspiration for goodness comes from people who will not be remembered by society, but will never be forgotten by the lives that they have touched.