For Grandpa

Grandpa, I wonder if I ever told you that you’re the one who first inspired me to write fantasy.

It began when you started reading Christopher Paolini’s Eragon to us grandchildren. This was a brave endeavor to say the least. The oldest was probably ten at the time, the youngest around four or five, but you hefted up that three-to-four inch book and dove right in. I can’t say we were always the most attentive. But I can say you were patient, and I can’t count all the times you’d stop reading and say in your mild tone, “Hey guys, can you pay attention?”

And we would. 

Well, for at least another ten minutes or so. 

You found ways to test our listening abilities too, usually by making bathroom jokes at serious points in the story to see how we’d react. I’d be innocently coloring, listening to you read with one ear and my cousins whisper with the other, and then you’d say, 

“And Eragon got so scared, he wet his pants.”

The whispering stopped.

Dead silence.

Then someone would ask, 

“Grandpa, does the book actually say that???”

It didn’t, and I’m not sure what the Moms would have thought if they’d known that you were reinforcing potty jokes. I think we all turned out all right for the most part, though.

Eragon  isn’t one of my favorite fantasy stories, but after you read it to us I found myself inspired. All that fantasy stuff was pretty cool, after all, and so it was that I began writing my first fantasy epic at the ripe age of nine. I think I got three pages in before quitting. I wish I’d let you read it, but it never crossed my mind, just like it never crossed my mind to tell you how much you inspired me. You inspired me in many ways, not just in fantastical ones. I wish I’d told you that, too.

You read us other books besides Eragon. You read us The Chronicles of Narnia and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and then you watched the Gene Wilder movie with us. I remember that one day when you had to work and Grandma read to us instead. She did a good job, it just wasn’t the same. Sorry, Grandma, but I think you understand.

Most of my memories of you have to do with either laughter or stories. Like the time you accidentally killed all the fish in the fish pond by letting the hose run too long and I found them, floating at the top of the water with their mouths hanging open. Eight year old me pretended to be mortified, but I was actually delighted to stumble upon this tragedy. “MOM, guess what I found?!” Mom laughed so hard about that. All of us did.

Then when I was eleven I was officially made your librarian when I convinced you to read the Harry Potter books. I gave you Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone and from that point on we were emailing book recommendations back and forth. I was so proud whenever you told people that I was your “resident librarian”. You made me laugh with your comedic email book updates, and after everything that happened this last week, I went back and read them and laughed all over again. Whenever you told me that you’d loved a book I’d recommended, it made my day. I think your favorites I ever lent you were Pam Munoz Ryan’s historical fantasy Echo and John Flanagan’s fantasy Ranger’s Apprentice series.

You never finished the last book I lent you. I think it’s the only book I ever gave you that you didn’t finish. I found your bookmark set at chapter five, and I’m going to keep that bookmark. I wish you were here to talk about the story with me. I wish you were here to talk about a lot of things.

We had the same taste in music, too. One night when I was eight all the grandkids were dancing on the patio swinging glow sticks around and I asked if we could listen to Owl City. Owl City was the last modern band you loved, and you loved all the best oldies songs too, like the Beach Boys, the Beatles, and John Denver. I stumbled upon your old Spotify profile and found your John Denver playlist. That made me smile. I think of you whenever I hear Surfin’ USA and Grandma’s Feather Bed.

It’s funny that the thing that made me cry the hardest was when I remembered how every time we came to your house you’d walk us back to our car and give each of us grandkids a thing of smarties and a packet of sixlets to eat on the ride home. It’s funny that the things I miss the most are the little things, like your high fives and the way you always referred to me as “Em”. That was the only real nickname I’ve ever had, and you’re the one who gave it to me. 

You gave me a lot of things.

Grandpa, I wanted you at my graduation. I wanted you at my wedding. I wanted you to meet my children. And that’s just it; I wanted you forever, Grandpa. But no one gets forever, and neither did I. Instead, I got fifteen years. Fifteen wonderful years of love, and books, and laughs, and Christmasses, and high-fives, and hugs, and sixlets, and smarties. 

Man, was I blessed. 

And now as I’m writing this I’m realizing that for all these lengthy paragraphs, meaningful as they are, they could really be summed up in just four words. Everything I feel, everything right now that hurts beyond tears and words and music and even laughter, need only be explained in one line.

I love you, Grandpa. 

We all do.

I’ll always treasure the story my Mom told me that day a few years ago when just she came over to hang out and you walked her out to the car like always and told her, 

“I don’t think you realize, but Emma’s special. She’s special.”

Some people have told me that I’m smart, and talented, and gifted, but none of that, nothing, no compliments from anyone I’ll ever meet ever for the rest of my life here on this broken earth will mean as much as knowing that you thought I was special, Grandpa. You did so many amazing, incredible things. You raised nine godly children who each love the Lord and are teaching their children to do the same. You were a sweet, sacrificial husband who gave up time and money so that your wife could stay home and homeschool all of your kids. You kept your cabinets stocked with candy every year of my childhood and you made the world’s best popcorn. You were a godly, wonderful, strong man. Thank you for everything you gave me and everything you did for me. You made me into the person I am, Grandpa, with your stories and your smiles and your quiet authority. You were a good man. The best man. You were one of the greatest men I’ll ever know.

I love you, Grandpa, and I miss you almost as much as I love you. Maybe we don’t get forever with you, not here on this earth. But we’ll get eternity with you. 

And that’s a thousand times better.