The Essence of a Man

“George was a very gentle and quiet man. He loved the Lord and his family.”

How do you capture the essence of a person in two sentences, or even a paragraph? Can any of us really be distilled into a small piece of writing? When my grandpa passed away three years ago, it was one of the first times I had grappled with the idea of mortality. When I read his obituary for the first time, I struggled with the idea that such a good man could be described in such a small paragraph. In many ways, he couldn’t be. I’ve spent the last three years reflecting on the man that I loved so dearly.

I remember how much my grandpa loved his truck, a tan two-seater GMC Sonoma with just enough space for me to ride by his side around town. My grandpa wasn’t known for talking a lot, but he loved to talk about his truck. He’d mention the most recent maintenance jobs he’d done, or the quirks of driving it. He’d say the mostly the same things about it every time we got in it together, but I didn’t care because I just liked being with him. He didn’t go on and on about his truck because he was materialistic, but because he knew the value of all that God had given to him. He was thankful. He gave me that truck when he couldn’t drive anymore, and I loved it. I loved it because I loved him, and I knew how hard it was for him to give it up. I felt like he had entrusted me with a piece of his heart.

In high school, I’d drive a mile down the road at lunchtime to the little house that my grandparents had lived in for decades in Cibolo, Texas. Walking up to that red brick house with a white garage always felt like home. We’d sit at the same round wooden table in the kitchen that hadn’t changed in all the years I had been there and talk about how school was going or what I was thinking of pursuing in college. My grandpa didn’t say a lot, but it was his presence that always struck me. I felt calm with him, certain that I brought him joy.

My grandpa would always pray before the meal, and tears come to my eyes even now as I hear his tender voice in my ears. Words whispered soft and delicate, brimming with love for Jesus and his family. The quiet of his voice beckoned me to listen to every syllable, not to let his words float away with the soft breeze coming through the window. After his “amen,” we’d eat my grandma’s chili, or her dangerously delicious butter noodles, and I would soak up every moment. I never wanted to drive that mile back to school. Without fail, my grandma would always ask if I wanted to lay down for a few minutes before returning. Sometimes I can still feel the blue cotton couch cushions sinking beneath me as I sneak a ten minute nap, my grandpa asleep in the leather recliner next to me. If I close my eyes, I’m almost there again, in his faithful presence.

As a sophomore in college, I got the phone call that my grandpa had dementia. I sat on my blue futon, not dissimilar to that blue couch from their home, and cried as I tried to understand the implications of the news. Would my grandpa remember me? Would he get to see me become a man? Would I honor his legacy?

As dementia turned into Alzheimer’s and my grandpa’s memory faded, I felt like a piece of me was fading, too. I was broken at the thought of losing him. Alzheimer’s, in all its wicked thievery, took the person that I knew away from me and left a shell of who he once was in his place. Holding onto the grandpa that I knew felt like trying to hold onto water vapor. I didn’t want to remember him. I wanted to be with him.

On my wedding day, just six months before he passed, it was getting hard for my grandpa to remember everything. Yet he had this posture about him, that same steady faithfulness that made me feel at home with him side-by-side in the truck and across the kitchen table assured me that he was me as I married my wife. Joy swelled within me as I looked at him, the gentle and quiet man whose love had helped shape me into the man that I was. I saw my grandfather, yes, but I saw Jesus within him. It was almost as though as my grandpa had faded, yet the light within him shone through stronger.

I wish I had so many more moments with him. I wish that I could hear his prayers one more time. I wish that I could ride in our truck together again. Yet, he was with me on my wedding day and he is with me now because his legacy is in me.

Alzheimer’s stole much from me in those last years, but there was something it couldn’t take. It couldn’t steal my grandpa’s essence. I am better because my grandpa’s legacy runs through my veins.

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