A Slow Fade

On Monday, we said a last farewell to my grandfather, Papa.

While he passed away on September 4th, one of the realizations I have had through the grieving process is that that was not the day we "lost" Papa. His decline in health, both physical and mental, has been a slow fade over the last few years. The Papa that I remember has been gone for some time now.

I think this is one of the things that has made me the most sad... the awareness that there is no proper goodbye... that, the more recent the memories, the less he was himself. The last time I saw him, his speech was only just audible (because of throat cancer), he spent his day either in his chair or in bed, he had very few teeth left, he was thin, and I was unsure how much he really recognized me.

What a vast difference from the Papa I remember growing up! I recall him spending hours in his yard, tending a vegetable garden and huge lawn and splitting wood from trees he had felled. The man whose mind was sharp as a tack with numbers, and could play Craps in Vegas and manage to always come home winners, and who was as patient and methodical as they come when it came to working a 1500 piece jigsaw puzzle. Papa was a strong, proud, self-made man, with a soft spot for his granddaughters. I admired his tenacity and work ethic, and loved to weasel a smile out of him.

The lack of closure is difficult, but not the hardest part of losing Papa. I ache because I have no reason to think that Papa was a Christian. We attended the memorial service of Jacob's uncle in August. While there were tears and grieving, even more so there was HOPE. This was not a final parting. Uncle Russell is not lost forever, but we have merely said farewell for a time, before we will see him again in Heaven. In contrast, the memorial service for Papa had a dark cloud in the background. There was no assurance of meeting him again, of him being in a better place where there is no more pain.

I know that God, in his sovereignty, can work even in situations that seem hopeless. Papa was exposed to the Gospel his whole life, though for most of that time, he maintained that there was nothing after death. Toward the end, he was less resistant to listening, and my parents especially focused on sharing the message of salvation and reminded him about God's love for him frequently. I don't know if Papa heard their words, or understood what they said, but I know he had many opportunities to respond to God's gift.

I struggled at first with the idea of God letting Papa pass away when it seemed like He could have done something. As I thought more about it, though, I realized that I had the wrong image of God's role. He was not sitting back and keeping Papa from accepting the gift of salvation. God's heart breaks, too, when His gracious gift is rejected. God was proactive in calling Papa, including revealing Himself through Christian family members' words and actions (through the years, my mom and dad spent countless hours in Temecula helping out my grandparents with paperwork, fixing things around the house, medical red tape, and much more).

I find I am still processing Papa's loss, and the tears still hit me unexpectedly as everyday things stir up vivid memories. I can still hear him singing "Oh how I hate to get up in the morning...." sometimes when I'm particularly reticent to get out of bed. I think of bringing our new baby down to Temecula, and not getting to introduce her to Papa. I have an especially hard time during worship on Sunday mornings, being reminded of the bright hope I have, and lack of that "blessed assurance" for Papa. I know these moments are part of the grieving process, and will happen less often as time goes by. But for now, I miss Papa.