Hour Of Retribution - Hour Of Peace

Some of my earliest memories are of visiting them each summer.  My parents loaded all six sleeping children into the 7,000 foot, red interior station wagon and began our annual voyage to the land of perpetual sunburns where Grandma and Grandpa Holding lived.  

I’ve loved the aroma of coffee since I was little.  I assume because it reminds me of him. 

I remember how loud his hearty laugh sounded and how massive his nose seemed to me as a child. 

I remember eating chips and salsa around his table and playing a wooden peg game.  I remember Grandpa telling me I was smart because I could always figure the game out.  It wasn’t that hard.  He probably said that to all of the grand-kids, but that didn’t keep me from feeling proud as a peacock nonetheless.  

I remember learning my first swear words from him.   

I used to go fishing with him and my dad at Strawberry Lake.  I felt proud to be the tomboy and pretended to be unphased by the grisly task of gutting the fish and baiting the hooks with worms.  I wanted Grandpa to think I was tough.  

Grandpa was sometimes an ornery old cuss, but he was always kind to me.

I felt sad when my dad reminisced about how hard Grandpa had been on him growing up.   I sensed that some of those wounds tarnished the most remote corners of my Dad’s life.  And part of me wondered if he longed for the day that he would tower over his bully, once his dad’s hour of feebleness came.  

But that hour of frailty, clothed in hospital blankets and humming monitors brought neither the sweet taste of revenge nor the elated relief of triumph.  It brought perspective.  It brought a submissive prayer next to a dying father asking not for retribution, but for comfort.   Dad asked that his former foe would feel peace – that he would feel love.  He expressed gratitude for the good things his father did and asked that as he passed on, he would be welcomed by his wife and have the opportunity to embrace the happiness he shunned in life.  I felt that despite everything, my Dad loved his father greatly.  He always had.   

I’m under no illusion that all of the wrinkles were ironed out in that moment.  But it’s amazing to me that all of life’s ills can be swallowed up in God’s love if we let them.  During that quiet prayer by Grandpa’s hospital bed I felt that somehow He can make things right…I don't know what that rightness entails.  But I believe it will be alright.

 

I love you, Grandpa.  

I’m sorry I made excuses for not visiting you frequently.  I’m so sorry if you felt lonely.  I’m terribly sorry for not being a better granddaughter.

I hope to give you a big hug and show you more love someday.