"I never really looked forward to my birthday," - C, age 100, on the fact that his mother died on his birthday in his 20s. "The holidays are hard. You really notice how much they're not here," - multiple people of all ages, on the loss of a loved one.
"Every day is hard," – parents on the loss of a child.
I was happy to see my grandfather. It had been awhile, and Granddaddy hadn't traveled much in a long time. But I caught a glimpse of him turning onto the lumber aisle of the store where I worked.
If he was here, my parents were too, and probably my grandmother.
I hurried to catch up and it wasn't until I rounded the corner of the aisle and saw the white-haired gentleman again that I realized he was not my grandfather.
Couldn't be. Granddaddy had died two or three years earlier.
I was suddenly overcome with emotion. My day was wrecked. I was glad my job at the time was more office-related rather than sales so I could limit my interactions with people until time to leave.
How could I have mistaken this man for him, who really looked nothing like the only grandfather I could remember?
The mind plays tricks on us sometimes. Maybe it's the brain's way of helping us identify people we encounter, searching for remembered faces, familiar features, filed-away names and individualized information.
Maybe it's our emotions still processing pain and loss we didn't realize were floating just below the conscious surface.
Maybe I needed more caffeine.
Whatever the reasons, I still miss him. Some days, like today, after hearing of the death of a friend, and another's brother, and another's mother and still another's father -- his face is more in focus.
The hope and peace that I have even in loss is that I will see him again one day, in the presence of our Lord. His 27 years there probably seems to him but a moment.
And if I could ask him if he loves it there, if he has joy and complete healing, I think he'd answer in the way I fondly recall him answering many of my childhood questions: "Mm-hmm."
