Chicken Soup for the Soul: A Book of Miracles
BY: Barbara Davey
God is the circle whose center is everywhere, and its circumference nowhere.
~Empedocles
While the natural cycle of life should have prepared me for the eventual death of my beloved grandfather, the thought of losing him was something I never allowed myself to consider. Throughout his life, Grandpa seemed to defy the conventions of the aging process. Hale, hearty, robust and quick-witted, he was my confidant, my mentor, and most importantly, my best friend well into his nineties.
Then, less than five minutes after I had talked to him on the telephone, he died suddenly from a cerebral hemorrhage, leaving me with a hole through my heart, soul and spirit.
I was his first granddaughter, but Grandpa was not one to spoil me. Nevertheless, I did always feel special with him. His eloquent manner of speaking and magnificent carriage attracted attention in every venue. Whether we were in a restaurant, a supermarket line, or a doctor's office, people gravitated toward him, and I loved being at his side. He lived by the Serenity Prayer, accepting what could not be changed, while bravely trying to improve what could. Even as a young child, I always sensed he heeded a Higher Power. His example was his greatest gift to me.
In the weeks that followed his death, I lived a numb existence. I staggered through the days, grieving, only to be tortured with thoughts of him throughout the night. I could not begin to comprehend that he was gone. He would no longer enter a room, answer the telephone, share a meal.
To physically escape the mental anguish, I started walking. For months, my only objective was to exhaust myself physically by day, to ensure my nights would be given over to sleep.
Soon, my walking pattern became routine. I strolled a few miles to our neighborhood park, then rested briefly on a bench overlooking a duck pond. An elderly man sat on an identical bench on the opposite side. Neither of us ever spoke to the other, but I sensed we were both seeking a similar peace in the silence.
Months passed, and eventually these excursions began to quiet my heart. I felt a change happening. The old man smoked a pipe and the tobacco reminded me of a time long ago when my grandfather used to smoke one, too. Perhaps the aroma triggered something, but I was transported back to a happier time. I remembered myself as a child reading the Sunday comics with Grandpa, playing with wooden blocks, and telling stories while eating canned fruit.
Throughout the next few months, other images flooded my memory. School graduations, holiday celebrations, birthdays and summer vacations from long ago were relived while sitting on that park bench. Again, neither I nor that old man ever spoke, but somehow I knew my gradual healing was related to that time on our identical benches.
One day I woke and realized the oppressive weight on my heart had lightened. It was then I recalled a dream I had. My beloved grandfather was there. He looked a little peculiar, though, as if he were a bit disturbed with me, a bit confused. I couldn't quite place the look on his face, but I knew I had seen it before.
It came to me later that day as I sat on that park bench. There, gently surrounded by the aroma of tobacco as my elderly companion puffed on his pipe, I remembered. Thirty-five years ago, my grandparents had taken a trip to Ireland. I hadn't wanted my grandfather to leave me, and I carried on horribly, crying about how much I would miss him. He had been disappointed in my behavior then, and that same look was on his face in my dream.
"Why are you acting like this?" he had asked me before his trip. "I'm only going away for a short time. I'll see you again very soon. Stop that."
Looking back over my behavior the past year, I could almost hear that same admonishment. But there seemed to be a new twist to his message this time. Now he seemed to be saying, "Let me go. I am finally home, and I am happy. But I am disturbed with you. It's not your time yet. When you're ready to come home, I'll be here. I am already waiting for you."
That realization hit me like a thunderbolt. I sat on that park bench for quite some time. Finally, with the sun setting, I buttoned my coat and started home. It was only then I realized the old man had left.
From that day forward, while I continued to miss my grandfather deeply, my heart was not so heavy. I could even smile when I remembered his perfect diction, erect posture, and witty sayings. I continued my walks to the park, but I never saw the old man again.
One day, I asked the park rangers if they had seen him.
The three men looked at each other, and then at me. Finally, one of them said, "We're not sure what you mean, Miss. The three of us have watched you sit on that same park bench every day for nearly a year. But you have always been alone. We never once saw an old man here."
~Empedocles
While the natural cycle of life should have prepared me for the eventual death of my beloved grandfather, the thought of losing him was something I never allowed myself to consider. Throughout his life, Grandpa seemed to defy the conventions of the aging process. Hale, hearty, robust and quick-witted, he was my confidant, my mentor, and most importantly, my best friend well into his nineties.
Then, less than five minutes after I had talked to him on the telephone, he died suddenly from a cerebral hemorrhage, leaving me with a hole through my heart, soul and spirit.
I was his first granddaughter, but Grandpa was not one to spoil me. Nevertheless, I did always feel special with him. His eloquent manner of speaking and magnificent carriage attracted attention in every venue. Whether we were in a restaurant, a supermarket line, or a doctor's office, people gravitated toward him, and I loved being at his side. He lived by the Serenity Prayer, accepting what could not be changed, while bravely trying to improve what could. Even as a young child, I always sensed he heeded a Higher Power. His example was his greatest gift to me.
In the weeks that followed his death, I lived a numb existence. I staggered through the days, grieving, only to be tortured with thoughts of him throughout the night. I could not begin to comprehend that he was gone. He would no longer enter a room, answer the telephone, share a meal.
To physically escape the mental anguish, I started walking. For months, my only objective was to exhaust myself physically by day, to ensure my nights would be given over to sleep.
Soon, my walking pattern became routine. I strolled a few miles to our neighborhood park, then rested briefly on a bench overlooking a duck pond. An elderly man sat on an identical bench on the opposite side. Neither of us ever spoke to the other, but I sensed we were both seeking a similar peace in the silence.
Months passed, and eventually these excursions began to quiet my heart. I felt a change happening. The old man smoked a pipe and the tobacco reminded me of a time long ago when my grandfather used to smoke one, too. Perhaps the aroma triggered something, but I was transported back to a happier time. I remembered myself as a child reading the Sunday comics with Grandpa, playing with wooden blocks, and telling stories while eating canned fruit.
Throughout the next few months, other images flooded my memory. School graduations, holiday celebrations, birthdays and summer vacations from long ago were relived while sitting on that park bench. Again, neither I nor that old man ever spoke, but somehow I knew my gradual healing was related to that time on our identical benches.
One day I woke and realized the oppressive weight on my heart had lightened. It was then I recalled a dream I had. My beloved grandfather was there. He looked a little peculiar, though, as if he were a bit disturbed with me, a bit confused. I couldn't quite place the look on his face, but I knew I had seen it before.
It came to me later that day as I sat on that park bench. There, gently surrounded by the aroma of tobacco as my elderly companion puffed on his pipe, I remembered. Thirty-five years ago, my grandparents had taken a trip to Ireland. I hadn't wanted my grandfather to leave me, and I carried on horribly, crying about how much I would miss him. He had been disappointed in my behavior then, and that same look was on his face in my dream.
"Why are you acting like this?" he had asked me before his trip. "I'm only going away for a short time. I'll see you again very soon. Stop that."
Looking back over my behavior the past year, I could almost hear that same admonishment. But there seemed to be a new twist to his message this time. Now he seemed to be saying, "Let me go. I am finally home, and I am happy. But I am disturbed with you. It's not your time yet. When you're ready to come home, I'll be here. I am already waiting for you."
That realization hit me like a thunderbolt. I sat on that park bench for quite some time. Finally, with the sun setting, I buttoned my coat and started home. It was only then I realized the old man had left.
From that day forward, while I continued to miss my grandfather deeply, my heart was not so heavy. I could even smile when I remembered his perfect diction, erect posture, and witty sayings. I continued my walks to the park, but I never saw the old man again.
One day, I asked the park rangers if they had seen him.
The three men looked at each other, and then at me. Finally, one of them said, "We're not sure what you mean, Miss. The three of us have watched you sit on that same park bench every day for nearly a year. But you have always been alone. We never once saw an old man here."
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