Have you ever had approximately 14,000 things to write about, so instead, you write about none? I'm hoping I'm not the only one who's been fighting this for a few months now. Seriously, you should see my drafts - this chick is all over the place. But I think I know why.
I've been in this season of thought. Reflection. Fighting myself (and God) just a little bit. Mulling ideas over for weeks at a time. The frustrating thing is that when I started this blog, I saw all of that coming. I knew I was diving straight into it, and my plan was to take you guys on this adventure with me. Like Bruk Marsh gets crazy vulnerable and tells you everything that's on her mind, profound or not, and sometimes shares a song or photo she really likes. That was the plan. Then something happened. My grandpa died. My sweet, precious, Poppy. And there aren't words for that. There's not a blog post that can express the feeling of loss and happiness and hope and love and sadness that happen in that moment, and it feels unfair to talk about anything else. Bringing it up here feels cheap, and not bringing it up.... well, if I don't I'll probably never write about anything ever again.
So here we go... to the best of my ability. My grandpa was incredible. He left a legacy of kindness and gentleness and humility. He brought life to every room. He was in love with children. He was in love with my grandma. He was in love with his kids and his grandkids. He was in love with love. He was in love with Jesus. More deeply than any person I've known. The world is lacking without him. My world is lacking without him. And even in his own passing, he's given me hope. People have shared his stories with me, and every time I glean something new. Something I didn't know he thought/believed. Things I wish we would've talked about, but I'm also glad we never did, because I need to hear them now. I could write for years about how special he is to me, but I'll leave you with this one tiny story. It may seem like nothing, but it shaped me.
We sat in silence in the living room, just him and I. I was by the fire and he was across the room in his chair, Bible in lap, eyes closed. "Brookie, how's your walk with Jesus?" I could barely answer. Tears instantly welled up from that deep place - the place they're coming from as I write this - where they catch in your throat and block out your words. I think it was the one and only time I've been asked that question. I had just returned from the 'mission field' in Africa. People made a lot of assumptions about my walk with Jesus. I was almost afraid to answer, but not for him. For me. "It's not good, Poppy." I saw him tear up too. He invited me onto his lap and asked, "you know what I've been struggling with lately?" And then he told me. And honestly, I don't remember what it was. What I remember is how gracious he was to me. What I remember is realizing that my 80 year old grandpa struggles with things. What I remember is how he let me sit on his lap and be human. And how close to God I felt in that moment, knowing that He wanted the very same thing.
I don't know how to end a post like this, other than just to say thank you for letting me share him with you. As long as I've battled it, he deserves a place here, clumsy as it may be. And thank you for all the love you've given me during this time. I know more deeply how much God cares for me because of the care I've been shown by friends and family. It's a really special gift.