Living Well

A few weeks ago, I visited my grandpa again. At age 94, he suffers from congestive heart failure and he was placed on hospice care almost a year ago.

He's dying.

Somehow this news hits me afresh whenever I see him, even though I've known it for a long time. In fact, I've already edited and finalized his obituary. And designed his funeral program. (If that sounds odd, what can I say? My grandpa is organized - and pretty darn old - so he wants to be prepared. I'm just glad to help him however I can.)

My visits with Grandpa are precious because we live seven hours apart. We don't see each other more than once or twice a year. I can't fully explain our relationship. When I was a kid, I didn't feel close to him. Oh, I knew that he loved me, but he was never the nurturing, doting kind of grandparent. To me, he seemed so serious and reserved.

But he's really just a quiet thinker.

We've grown close in the last ten years, since the death of my grandmother. For me, that closeness started at Grandma's graveside; I was crying and Grandpa silently reached for my hand.

In that touch, we shared our grief.

Now, I find that our relationship is meaningful beyond words. We love deeply. And we understand uniquely. Somehow he just "gets" me in a special way.

And he's dying.

I already mentioned that, I know. It just seems inescapably pertinent.

During our previous visit, we talked about his lifelong love for Jesus and for my grandmother. He shared a few stories of their work as medical missionaries in South America and then Africa. He talked about how, even now, he continues to pray for people he met during that time. He told me that, as long as he's alive, he wants to serve his Lord.

Then Grandpa steered the conversation in my direction.

"What are you going to do?"

That was his kind but direct way of asking, "What are you going to do with your life that counts for eternity?" He asked because he cares about life's deepest issues.

It's a question that often haunts me. I answered him honestly: "I don't know exactly. But I wish I did."

He didn't criticize or offer trite suggestions; he simply listened and promised to pray for me. In the months that followed, I pondered that question countless times.

During this visit, Grandpa was barely coherent. His health has deteriorated to the point where he is bedridden and hardly able to drink or eat. His pain medication causes him to drift in and out of sleep. He struggles to say more than a few garbled words at a time.

It hurts to look at him, so weak and frail.

I pulled up a chair next to his bed and placed his larger hand in my two hands. I sat quietly, alternately thinking and praying, working hard to contain my emotions. Grandpa knew why I was there; we didn't bother with small talk.

Sunshine climbed into my lap and touched her great-grandpa's arm. Then she sang sweetly to him: "Jesus loves me, this I know." He smiled oh-so-briefly. Because he does know.

He forced his eyes open long enough to look at me.

"Denise," he started. There was a long pause as he fought to stay awake and find his words. "I love you."

I nodded as I fought to hold back the tears. I clung to the moment.

He finally continued: "I still pray for you every day."

All I could do was squeeze his hand and say, "Thank you. Thank you. I love you too."

I couldn't find a way to express my gratitude for the great legacy my grandpa is giving me. So I said a short prayer, asking the Lord to give him comfort and strength during this difficult journey. God is gracious. Even now, as Grandpa nears the end, his life has meaning. He's suffering and bedridden, yet his lucid moments are filled with prayers.

To love and honor Jesus Christ, no matter that he's dying. This is my grandpa's purpose in life. One day soon, he'll be with his beloved Lord. Grandpa is living - and dying - well.

With God's grace, I want to do the same.