Amen, amen, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.
-John 21:18
About a year and a half ago, my aunt and I got coffee and visited my grandpa at his nursing home with my son in tow. As we were getting ready to leave after our visit, I watched my aunt make sure my grandpa was positioned well in his wheelchair before lifting the brakes and starting to move, and I realized that I was going through the same motions with my 4-month-old and his stroller. I was struck by the preciousness of both lives, but also by how much they each depended on their caretakers for everyday functions. My observations continued at Thanksgiving a few months later—my mom put a bib on my grandpa to catch any food that didn’t make it into his mouth as she fed him. My son, too, needed a bib and relied on the fine motor skills of others to feed him.
Perhaps I’m being dramatic, but I was pierced by the thought that so many people may have looked at both my son and my grandpa and thought that their lives weren’t worth living because they didn’t possess full autonomy—as if their reliance on others made them less human. I couldn’t help but be moved by the tenderness of them in their need. Over the last year and a half, I’ve watched as my son learns how to be more and more independent, while my grandpa slowly lost whatever independence he had left. It certainly wouldn’t have been fair to say that, because of my son’s increased autonomy, he was more human than my grandpa. Both of their lives have value beyond measure, and their states in life and development called for a posture of receiving, rather than doing, taking, or giving. Both are lives deserving dignity by the simple fact that they were made in the image of God, and that their lives are gifts from the ever-generous Creator.
The juxtaposition of the new life of my son next to the aged life of my grandfather was not lost on me. Of course, my son wouldn’t have life in the first place if it wasn’t for my grandpa. Everyday, we’re given opportunities to encounter newness of life, while also being confronted by our own mortality, and the mortality of our loved ones, by virtue of being human.
Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
My grandpa, the only one I had the privilege of knowing, passed from this life on January 20. He wasn’t a saint by any means (no one is this side of Heaven), but I can say with full confidence that he loved deeply in the best ways that he knew how. Most summers, we got to visit him in Colorado, and his joy in our presence was as evident as his sorrow when we left. He was generous with his time and finances—often taking us out to eat when we were together, coming up to visit us for mine and my dad’s birthdays most Octobers, and funding a handful of family vacations. I would always look forward to his tobacco-smelling Ford pickup in the school parking lot waiting to pick me up when he’d come to visit, and a bag of the “pink and whites” (Circus Animal Cookies) would be waiting for me at home. He was also present for most sacramental celebrations, most recently making the trip in a medical transport to my husband’s and my wedding, just a month after he moved to South Dakota. He also really, really loved my son, which was such a delight.
As I’ve been traveling to be with family during this time, I’ve pondered how we owe much to our grandparents. They lived life and likely endured much suffering so that we could have the lives we have now. If, at his hour of judgement, the Lord had posed the question to my grandpa, “What did you do for Me and My Kingdom?” my grandpa could probably say many things, but perhaps to articulate the most notable accomplishment of his earthly life he could’ve said, “I gave you my descendants to be servants of You and Your Kingdom.”
Eternal rest grant unto Stephen, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him.