Blink

My grandfather died in his home at the age of 88.  He was surrounded by his wife, four children, a handful of grandchildren and loved ones.  When he opened his eyes for the last time—just minutes before his last breath—my mother was standing on a chair, shouting and waving her hands.  “Dad, it’s me!  We’re okay!  It’s okay!”  A life fully lived, with only despair and joy pulling at the edges of the final passage.  

As mom shouted on a chair and my sister held GrandSam’s hand, I was walking across a golf course in Kenya.  I glanced at my blackberry, nonchalant one moment, melting onto the green the next.  Salty sobs on African soil.  I was in Nairobi.  They were in New Orleans.  I felt the distance in my bones.  His departure was crushing.

***

I met the man known as Dr. Sam Logan six years ago in Nicaragua.  Of course, I had known him my entire life—GrandSam was the only grandfather I ever knew.   But I didn’t know the depth of his being, the true parameters of his identity, until I sat next to him on the floor of a rural elementary school in the hills north of Jinotega.

GrandSam always loved to hold hands; it was a distinct part of his affectionate repertoire. In those mountains, on his mission, I watched him assess a middle-aged woman raped by her neighbor.  I translated as he comforted an older gentleman, stooped and aching, worn down by a hard life.  And I cried as GrandSam reached out.  He held their hands like he had always held mine.

Sitting next to my grandfather those ten days, I felt years of discord and tension fall away.  No longer the challenging, obstinate character of my childhood, here was a man long on patience and quick to serve.  Here was my grandfather, transcendent in compassion and love.

Of course, the qualities I had always been so quick to pin on my grandfather—opinionated and downright difficult, to name a couple—are really best revealed when shared by two.  And let me say this: even as a young girl, I was a natural contender. When I proved to be a decent student, GrandSam sent me his medical schoolbooks. For better or worse, I did not inherit the doctor gene, but strong-will, tenacity and a penchant for political debate?  Yes sir, thanks for the lessons, and count me in.

GrandSam filled up every room he ever entered.  His eyes smiled even when his mouth did not.  In his final years, he beckoned kisses from his granddaughters. "Yumyumyum," he would say, pulling us near. He spared not a moment of his long, joyful life, delighting in the company of New Orleans society as much as the wildflowers and marmots of Crested Butte.  

Close my eyes, and there he is: the definition of debonair in his classic Logan tartan blazer, toasting a room with a flute of champagne.  Blink, and there he is again: fly-fishing vest and waders, wildflowers in his back pocket and rainbow trout in his hands.

Blink, and there you are, GrandSam.  Holding my hand, showing me the way.  Silly me.  Without fully knowing it, I have always been walking your path.  Confident, opinionated, and sometimes a little difficult.  Committed to service and trying my best to live through love, just like you taught me.  Blink, and there you are.