Between his stories, I could think of only one thing. One day, I’ll be the one talking to the driver of a hearse.
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My dad lightly tapped my elbow.
“Look at grandpa,” he whispered. I was only a little boy, but I knew I was watching something spectacular. “That’s how it used to be everywhere we went.”
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In a place covered in death, I saw a beautiful glimpse of my grandpa’s life.
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We watched grandpa’s eyes light up as he talked to the hearse driver. The two old men broke the silence of the cemetery with their chatter. They both smiled as they remembered playing baseball against each other as high schoolers.
“Bill, do you remember the hill in centerfield?” asked the suited driver. “It was the worst!” They laughed, and then they reminisced about the long list of friends whose game had ended before theirs.
In a place covered in death, I saw a beautiful glimpse of my grandpa’s life.
Everyone was once young.
It’s easy to forget that grandpa was once my age, but it’s easy to remember when he beams about his time as a politician with a focus on racial equality. He laughs as he recounts his time in the Army, when he was shipped overseas. Not to fight, but to coach basketball.
“They treated me like a king!” he exclaimed. “They called me a ‘professionally trained basketball coach.’ Heck, I didn’t coach basketball until they sent me overseas!”
He tells his stories as if he’s rehearsed them a million times.
But he hasn’t told these stories in years.
Don’t move too fast to ask for stories.
My grandpa and I don’t live too far from each other.
I pass my grandpa’s house on the way to the gym. His house is also on the route I take to a coffee shop I sit at while I work. When I’m consumed with my own schedule, I think that all I’m passing is his house.
But I’m passing more than grandpa’s house.
I’m passing his stories. I’m passing his years of experience and his wisdom. No, I’m not just passing his house. I’m passing him.
It took a year of passing him until I realized I was. We lived so close to each other that I never felt an urgent need to visit him. I’d pass him and think, “I’ll drop by the next time I’m out this way.” With every “next time” came another “next time.”
“This time” doesn’t come unless you choose it.
Choosing “this time.”
Procrastination prevents.
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Personally, procrastination prevented my grandpa from living his life through the stories he told.
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It prevents us from accomplishing our goals and from bringing our visions to reality. Procrastination prevents progress, and it prevents us from helping others the way we’re built to do.
Personally, procrastination prevented my grandpa from living his life through the stories he told.
Not long ago, I almost passed my grandpa’s house again. Thankfully, I chose this time to visit instead of next time. I knocked on his door at noon, and didn’t leave until that evening. He filled the entire house with stories as we fingered through pictures from the distant past.
His eyes lit up as he shared his life with me.
Between stories, I could think of only one thing. One day, I’ll be the one talking to the driver of a hearse. My grandpa will be inside of it.
I’m thankful I chose this time.
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Photo: Flickr/Gregorio Pugo Bailon
