What, Therefore, I Hope I'm Leaving
So
few so far of mine have left the world I know for heaven. Three grandparents plus one
great. Two babies who gave up heart-beating before they had the chance to
breathe.
It’s
only a matter of time before death begins its grim, but hopeful transfer of yet
another older-than-me generation. I will see them again. Or maybe they’ll see
me. Who can say?
Our
times are in God’s hands.
But
those who’ve gone already left treasures:
Grandpa,
for instance, always had a story to tell, embellished with humor, his take on
events. According to Grandpa, for example, the Japanese surrendered in World
War II because they heard the draft had finally captured my grandfather, who
was on a ship, on his way. No coincidence of timing in Grandpa’s account
of history: the war ended when he showed up. To me, he left his
appreciation for poetry, imagination, a well-told story, and the deepest truth.
His
wife, on the other hand, always had a list of sights to see. Nobody sat in her
house (from which smartphones surely would have been banned.) Grandma’s
grandchildren went on outdoor adventures, explored museums, experienced the
circus and ballet, and greeted people. If anyone had ever told her of stranger
danger, she’d have furrowed her brow, confused. Strangers were mythological.
People, however, were friends in the making — some made, some yet to be. I did
not inherit this from her, but the ability to tag along on adventures has
served me well. She left me this.
Nana
always had new greeting cards to show. As a child, I thought she collected them
for the pretty pictures and started a collection of favorites I
received. Now I know she treasured the senders they represented and their
messages. Nana loved her people and longed to keep in touch. She left this
longing to me.
My
grandma from the other side of the family always had a crochet hook in hand, a
project in play. She did not leave this skill to me, but she did leave me a love for
making lasting things, sometimes just for the sake of creating. My grandma
longed to fill the world with beauty. So do I.
Finally,
my great-great-grandfather, whom I never met, left his journals which his
longest-surviving child left to me. A daily record in several volumes. Where he
worked. Who he saw. What he read. His assessment of each day was almost always
a concise, “A good day.” He left his penchant for chronicling to me.
When
I go, I wonder, what will I leave?
Here
are a few possibilities:
Bookshelves
of books. These,
I hope, will represent my insatiable curiosity. The desire to learn and
keep learning is something I want my descendants to inherit. Making daily
discoveries broadens the awe of existence — and of the Creator who makes it
possible.
Pens,
papers, screens, and keyboards. Just as I inherited
Grandpa’s story-telling bent, I hope to pass this on. The world needs
embellishments, humor, and fun subtly woven into stories, poems, and essays
that present truth palatably.
Meaningful
hugs. My
best friend in high school, still alive yet missing from my life due to time
and distance, was known for her ever-present smile. I cannot offer that and
maintain integrity as she could. My heart has experienced too many
hurts. Yet, hugs give empathy, understanding, and acceptance. I
can offer that. Perhaps the essence will linger as something useful I’ve left.
The
peace of a listening ear. For those who find hugs traumatic, as some do — not
me, but some — I can listen, and let them unburden. I can hear their
stories, treasure their tears, and take some of their trauma with me when I go,
leaving, I pray, a measure of relief in my wake.
Not my literal wake, of course, but the wake of my life slowly dissipating as my descendants grow up, raise families, and start new generations who will never meet me, as I never met my great, great grandfather. Perhaps even now, I’m offering them something unrecognized and unintended like the journals my great, great left behind that found their way to me. As I’m living, I’m leaving what I’m leaving. I pray it will add some value to the lives that follow after me.
* * *
I wrote this essay one year ago this month in answer to a writing prompt. Last month, though, my father passed away, and so I am posting this essay here now. I'm just beginning to process this new loss: analyzing, journaling, feeling. I've written three poems so far. And a eulogy. I'm not ready to add my dad to this particular list, but someday I'll chronicle his gifts. He left me more than I can write about. I pray I'll pass it all on.
* * *
Photo by Julia Joppien on Unsplash
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