A couple days ago I went to visit my grandparents. I was headed to the lake on my day off anyway, and since they live within five minutes of my favorite lake, I decided to stop in and visit. I talked with my grandpa about his recovery (he recently had a knee surgery), his medications and his plans. For an 82 year old, he sure isn't slowing down at all. The past couple of months were probably just a hiccup in his mind. To everyone else it seemed like maybe his life was nearing it's end, but to him, it was just a short diversion to keep him a little longer from completing his to-do list.
As I shared with him my newest hobby (rock climbing), I received the ever-familiar eye roll simultaneously executed with the head shake and slight chuckle. I'm not sure that everyone receives this response, but in the past few years, I have learned to appreciate and except this each time I share something new in my life with Grandpa. It is usually closely followed by a remark about his blood pressure rising or anxiety climbing another notch to which I typically offer a sheepish grin and chuckle of my own, but no apology. To me, the progression is a completely normal one. It was at Grandpa's house that we made forts out of hay bales, climbed trees too tall, and chased wild ponies with ropes, attempting to catch and 'train' them. It was all possible at Grandpa's, and all encouraged, I might add. And had it not been, I wouldn't be who I am. I'd have missed an integral part of myself, a part that I consider definitive. That's why no apologies are offered. He wouldn't expect one. I have got to live this life of mine, and really live it out. Giving an apology would send the message that it was a mistake, but it has in fact all been very intentional.
As I drove back home, I caught a scene that reminded me of this again: a small boy riding his bike next to his mom took a nasty spill, his bike on top of him, hands and one knee kissing the black top. My momentary glance didn't last long enough to see what happened next, but if the boy had any sense, and his mom was smart about it, he'd get back on the bike and keep going. He'd brush off the gravel, wipe his blood on his shorts and mount the bike again. Because that's the beauty of life and spills. We learn, grow and mature through the wipe-outs, but the benefit of that process is experienced in much greater measure when we get back up and try again.
Its a life lesson really: you're not finished yet. Try again. Give it another chance.
And just like my Grandpa, even at 82, we've all still got things on our to-do list.
No comments:
Post a Comment