Worth Something
~A
short story~
I think the first time my brother and I experienced
the brevity of life was with my grandfather.
I was twelve then, a young girl still learning when
to speak and when not to. Still learning
the demands of the world outside my own.
Not that I fully understand those things now. I was more myself then, I guess. More
honest with my thoughts.
Cory was a year younger than me. He was five parts fun, six parts annoying,
and a hundred percent little brother. He
was all right.
It all started when Grandpa had a stroke. Before that, he hadn’t been very interesting
to Cory and me. He was a rather tall man
with short gray hair who liked to pretend that he was younger than he really
was. Judging from the way our parents
talked of him, he was slightly eccentric.
He was always off somewhere in the world or busy with one of his “projects.” Cory and I could brag that we had a
grandfather who had been in this country or that, but there wasn’t much more to
say for him. When we saw him, he would
comment about how we had grown and perhaps give us some small speech about
having a good heart or following your dreams.
I think he meant to be inspiring.
Now I see those lectures were too vague and, well, (I have to say it)
shallow for them to ever get into our heads.
I suppose Grandpa’s traveling and souvenir-collecting really meant more
to him than that type of thing.
Then that stroke came. Thankfully, he had it while he was in the
country. The attack cost him the use of his
left side. He did retain his speech,
though it was slow and broken.
He was moved into an advanced care facility. Our parents brought Cory and me to visit him
in his new apartment several times. We
were there to encourage Grandpa in his recovery because the doctors said that
control of his left side could return with time. We felt bad for Grandpa, of course, but we didn’t
like being in that tiny little room any more than he did, I’m sure. We weren’t really happy to visit.
One time my parents talked with Grandpa some while
Cory and I waited outside. Then Mom and
Dad came out to tell us that Grandpa wanted to talk to us alone. There he sat, his one side horribly limp and
a sad smile on his face.
He said, “Tess and Cory. I’d like to tell you something. Would you listen to me?” Cory rolled his eyes (so only I could see)
and went to plop stomach-down on the bed.
He called me to the small chair next him, but Cory
stayed collapsed on the bed, his chin resting on his fists.
“Cory,” he began, “And Tess. You’re young, you see. You’ve a lot of years ahead of you. I’ve lived a long while – not as long as
other people, I guess, but still rather long.
Oh, I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.
But I’m tuckered out. Look,” and
his weak, leathery hand (his good one) gripped my shoulder, “Look, I’ve talked
to you both before about making good choices and having good hearts, but, well,
maybe I didn’t really listen to myself.”
His voice continued, broken and very earnest. It was his unusual earnestness that made me
pay attention for once. “Listen to me,
children. Listen to me. Your Grandpa is a sad, dejected, weary
man. Jesus saved me when I was younger,
but some time ago I started living like He didn’t make any difference at
all. I see it now – all that traveling,
all that work – I was just trying to please myself. Some yearning inside me wanted to be
satisfied, and I wanted to satisfy it myself.
I knew I couldn’t, I knew –
but I tried anyway. I knew only Jesus could satisfy that ache,
like He had done for me before. He
wanted me to live fully for Him but I didn’t want to give that much of myself.
“Traveling: we think it’s so wonderful. So free;
you’re not just sitting around being a homebody. That’s why I did it. You’re told that you’re doing so much with
your life. But there were so many more
things I could have done with my time.
So much more love I could have sacrificed. All that time I spent in selfishness was time
squandered.”
Cory had crept off the bed to kneel by Grandpa’s
knee, seemingly fascinated by his words.
Or perhaps he was tired of the bed.
His voice cracking, Grandpa kept on.
“Please.
Please, please don’t let you children do that to yourselves. The years are so much shorter than you think
when you spend it all on yourself. They
just fly by. Because they’re
nothing. Nothing. Look, I know you can’t promise, but, please,
don’t spend all your time on what God tells you won’t satisfy. Because it won’t.”
And he pulled us close with his good arm and there
were tears in his eyes. And I sort of
gasped, because you don’t expect Grandpa
to cry. Cory was whispering, “It’s all
right, Grandpa!” I hugged Grandpa tight,
partly because I wanted to comfort him, partly because I just wanted his tears
to stop. They made me feel I was
supposed to be sentimental, which I didn’t want to be. It’s uncomfortable.
So the beauty of Grandpa’s confession didn’t really
hit me that day. A little less than a
year later a second stroke killed him.
It was the first time someone close to me died, and it was a bit of a
shock, no matter how his health had been declining.
I have been growing since then, and I think that
speech left an undeniable mark upon me.
I never got to thank Grandpa for it, but maybe Jesus has told him for
me. Grandpa had squandered a lot of his
time on selfish things. He thought he
had wasted his life, but he warned Cory and me against wasting ours. And I think that must count for something,
don’t you?
finis.
So, there it is! I usually write in omnescient narrative (not to be confused with third-person), which I honestly think is the best narrative to write a novel in. So writing this loose, first-person account was really fun for me. Oh, and this is not taken from a true story, by the way.
And I finished reading one of the two novels I was talking about in my last post. It was AWESOME. If really complicated.
Please, respect my creative *cough* genius *coughcough* and don’t steal this story. Many thanks! – Rachel
