A Letter to My Grandfather

Dear Grandpa,

I've thought about writing this letter a hundred times, but I never was ready to put it all on paper. (Well, metaphorically speaking.) It's hard for me to believe that this time a year ago I was saying goodbye to you for the very last time in this life.

A whole year. 365 days -- 366, actually, since this year was a leap year (Aunt Catherine had a birthday this year!); a whole lot of hours and minutes and seconds have passed since then. I'm not particularly prone to attaching a lot of sentiment to the anniversaries of things, but a year seems like a significant amount of time.

When you died, it was hard for me to believe that you were really gone, at first. No one close to me had ever died before; it was my first time really experiencing death. It was harder because I never really got to say goodbye, not really. The last time I really saw you was General Conference weekend, when Grandma invited Aunt Suzanne and her family and me and Stephen over for a post-conference dinner of store-bought muffins and apple juice. We sat around the table and laughed so hard our stomachs ached when Heather told us the story about that kid who was determined to catch the feral sheep. I know I must have said, "Goodbye!" and "I love you!" when I left, because I always do, but I don't remember. I probably even gave you a hug; you're a great hugger. I think you passed that on to Dad, he always squeezes me just the way you used to. So many times in the last year I've thought about how great it would be if I could just hop in my car and drive down the street and ask for a hug on days when I was feeling down, or discouraged, or just lonely. For the first few days and weeks I had to consciously remind myself that you weren't there at the house with Grandma anymore, and each time I did it brought a wave of sadness crashing right back over me.

I was so angry at you. I still am, a little. It's so stupid, and it seems so pointless. It was your own stubborn fault for not taking better care of yourself, for not going to the doctor right away when you started feeling a little "off". You left Grandma all alone barely four months before the family reunion to celebrate your 50th wedding anniversary that Grandma had been planning for over a year. You left before my dad got to see you again, and I know how much that hurts him. You left right as I was starting to wonder about what I was going to do when I graduated in a year, right when I really needed all your years of wisdom from working at the university and your priesthood blessings and your hugs and teasing jokes.

I don't doubt the Lord called you back to Him. I was angry at Him, too, even, which is much more befitting a child than a supposedly-mature adult. I just didn't understand why then, of all times. But then why does anything happen when it does? I suppose that's why I'm not in charge and He is.

If I've learned anything from this, it's that there truly must be an afterlife for the souls of men, and that they are not wholly ignorant of us here. I know you'll be there when I get my diploma, and when I get married, and when I see my children for the first time. And I know you'll be standing there with my dad when my children's father (whoever he is -- maybe you can give him a nudge in my direction for me) gives them a name and a blessing, and you'll laugh at me the first time I say something to my child I swore I'd never say because I hated hearing it from my parents (probably something about "privileges" or "consequences"). I know you'll be there when my dad holds his little grandkids on his lap to tell them a Bob and Steve story; he's a little rusty, you might have to prompt him. And I know that one day I'll get to see you again, and best of all, get a great big, squeezy grandpa hug.

I'm counting on that.

Love,
AnnMarie

Some words I needed to hear

I read this this morning at my breakfast table, and I was struck by how much it applies to me at this point in my life.


"One of my favorite scriptural accounts that illustrates this important principle is found in Matthew chapter 14. As the disciples watched the Savior walk on the Sea of Galilee toward their boat, they thought they were seeing a ghost. Jesus assured them that it was He and that they need not be afraid. Peter declared, “Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water” (verse 28). Jesus said, “Come.” Matthew then records, “And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus” (see Matthew 14:24–29).

The rest of the story is what I find most significant. I can’t relate to walking on water, but I can relate to what Peter experienced next:

“But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me.

“And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?

“And when they were come into the ship, the wind ceased.

“Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped him, saying, Of a truth thou art the Son of God” (Matthew 14:30–33).

All of us have had, are having, or will yet have a Peter-like “sinking” experience in some way and will at some time (probably many times) cry out, “Lord, save me.” Even Peter’s strong fisherman arms were not strong enough to save him. He needed the rescuing arms of Christ, and so do we. Can you imagine Peter—choking, his head bobbing beneath the surface of the water—saying as the Savior extends His arms: “No, thank you. I will swim to shore. I sank myself, so I must save myself”? Of course not. How ridiculous! Yet we sometimes do just that.

We may know in our heads that our mortal arms and hands are deficient—in fact, utterly incapable of rescuing or redeeming us—but we sometimes resist, even recoil from, the outstretched arms of the Savior. Sometimes we spiritually drown ourselves because we won’t allow His arms to cradle us. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve eloquently stated:

“May I be bold enough to suggest that it is impossible for anyone who really knows God to doubt his willingness to receive us with open arms in a divine embrace if we will but ‘come unto Him.’ …

“I am convinced that none of us can appreciate how deeply it wounds the loving heart of the Savior of the world when he finds that his people do not feel confident in his care or secure in his hands.”"

From "The Loving Arms of Christ", April 2012 Engsin