To be a young person and, especially, to be a student is to be continually asked by others about what you hope and plan to do in the future. Many years ago, I read this excerpt in Henri Nouwen’s book Aging: the Fulfillment of Life that has remained with me:
Not too long ago a thirty-two-year-old, good-looking, intelligent man, full of desire to live a creative life, was asked: “Jim, what are your plans for the future?” And when he answered: “I want to work with he elderly and I am reading and studying to make myself ready for the task,” they looked at him with amazement and puzzlement. Someone said, “But Jim, don’t you have anything else to do?” Another suggested, “Why don’t you work with the young? You’ll really be great with them.” Another excused him more or less, saying: “Well, I guess you have a problem which prevents you from pursuing your own career.” Reflecting on these responses, Jim said: “Some people make me feel like I have become interested in a lost cause, but I wonder if my interest and concern do not touch off in others a fear they are not ready to confront, the fear of becoming an old stranger themselves.”
My grandmother died on September 22, 2009 between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. A few days after her death, when I was 18, I wrote this poem in memory of her, which I just found again today:
A Tribute to My GrandmotherI first met my grandmother When I was very youngShe held me in her armsBefore I had turned oneMy family ventured to TorontoAnd she and grandpa came to CalgaryThose times were special thenAlways remembered they will beWhen I was only fourMy grandma called me nearI didn’t like her nickname for meShe used to call me ‘dear’So we agreed upon ‘Mandy’This name for only her to call meHer precocious little granddaughter And I would call her ‘Bubbie’I remember the trips to Toys ‘R’ UsWith my brother to choose toysWe could pick almost anythingAs long as it would bring us joyMy grandma loved educationAnd she always called me cleverShe knew my commitment to my educationWould surely last foreverIn her final yearsBubbie grew old and frailBut my grandpa visited herEvery day without failI learned unconditional loveThrough the witness that they gaveTo a love that knows no boundsAnd to a love that is very braveSometimes it was hard to see my grandmaLost and confused in her mindThen I’d remember thoughHow much her heart was refinedMy grandma’s life was a giftFrom the God who I do praiseThe Lord is compassionate and lovingIn all His mighty ways
A Tribute to My Grandmother
I first met my grandmother When I was very youngShe held me in her armsBefore I had turned one
My family ventured to TorontoAnd she and grandpa came to CalgaryThose times were special thenAlways remembered they will beWhen I was only fourMy grandma called me nearI didn’t like her nickname for meShe used to call me ‘dear’
So we agreed upon ‘Mandy’This name for only her to call meHer precocious little granddaughter And I would call her ‘Bubbie’
I remember the trips to Toys ‘R’ UsWith my brother to choose toysWe could pick almost anythingAs long as it would bring us joy
My grandma loved educationAnd she always called me cleverShe knew my commitment to my educationWould surely last forever
In her final yearsBubbie grew old and frailBut my grandpa visited herEvery day without fail
I learned unconditional loveThrough the witness that they gaveTo a love that knows no boundsAnd to a love that is very brave
Sometimes it was hard to see my grandmaLost and confused in her mindThen I’d remember thoughHow much her heart was refined
My grandma’s life was a giftFrom the God who I do praiseThe Lord is compassionate and lovingIn all His mighty ways
Ever since I was a child, writing has been my favourite creative outlet. Whenever someone would die or whenever I would grapple with the mystery of suffering and death, I would scribble words of poetry and reflection to contend and find meaning.
In addition to being a helpful outlet at the time, I find it interesting to look back on what I wrote in the past and to discover how sealing those memories through creative acts magnifies the memories I hold.
The janitor at my local grocery store was named Allen Baker.
I didn’t know Allen when he was alive, but I came to know of him by this memorial that the Farm Boy team set up to commemorate him at the entrance of the store, right next to the stalks of asparagus and Gruyère cheese.