I wonder what it is about gray days that make them feel like lazy days, as though all we’d like to do is to stay inside and sit, perhaps with a book, that we might trade in for the company of friends. Or what it is about rainy days that makes us, even if some of us love splashing about outside, crave warm rooms and hot drinks, and possibly the company of family.
A few days ago, it rained in Ikoma.
It was probably raining all over Kansai but it didn’t matter much to me. It rains regularly enough to make me uncomfortable to not own a decent quality umbrella. There’s a large window in my room and just outside are shrubs and leafy bamboo plants that have made the sloping mounds their homes. I’m not particularly fond of rain and so rarely do I pay it any attention. But when it rained those few days ago, I heard a rhythmic clopping outside. I looked out the window, expecting to see a stray branch tapping the glass, but it was the percussion of raindrops hitting leaf, then leaf, then leaf, as they slid their way down to the ground. I watched for a tranquil minute. And I thought about my grandpa, my dad’s dad.
I’m not sure if it was the sound of raindeer (Get it?) on my proverbial rooftop that conjured him up, but it cast a pensive spell over my mood regardless. I think some part of me just knows that it’s April, even when I’m not necessarily aware that it’s April. My grandpa passed away during an April, you see. And so whenever he pops into my mind and stays for days, I become distinctly aware of the month.
Of course, enough time has passed now that a rose tint shades my memories of him. But when you are a child and you cannot understand much, there are seemingly ceaseless gripes you have with the adults in your family. They are there to love you and, to a child, to love you in the way you expect and desire to be loved. When they fail that, even if they are loving you truly and dearly beyond what you perceive, you huff and pout and kick and scream and cry.
I don’t know that my grandpa had the chance to be that way. To be selfish and honest about how he felt. He grew up, as many did in that day, in a poor working class home with more than a few brothers and sisters. He had several stepmothers float in and out of his life, at least one of whom was particularly nasty toward him. I don’t know all the details, and to the best of my recollection he never brought up his past with me, at least not on his own. But he had to grow up quickly. He fought in the Korean War as a young man, and arguably experienced more downs than ups throughout his life. There wasn’t much time for people in his and similar circumstances to be apathetic toward living; he had to survive.
Though I now recall his softer edges, I cannot forget his stoic temperament or his constant grumbling about one thing or another. But you grow up and try to behave the way an adult does until it takes all of thirty seconds to realize you don’t know what the hell you’re doing most of the time. And you consider your parents and your grandparents and realize that, if they’re “typical Korean” adults, they wrestled through the same situations in a culture less tolerant of expressing emotion or speaking from the heart, or other necessary components of healthy emotional processing. I don’t know if my dad ever heard from my grandpa that he loved him, which frankly, makes it a miracle and evidence that God heals and recourses the downward spirals of generational family issues, that my dad tries his best to verbally affirm me with his love. But I’ve come to the belief that it’s unfair of me to paint my grandpa in selfish, childish hues when he was never truly fathered himself. I can acknowledge his faults, but choose to remember the best of him more often. I’m feeling more and more sentimental as I type this out so I’ll share one of my most vivid memories of him with you (I’ve written about my grandpa and this situation in a post during college, and it was interesting to go back, to see and feel from an older-but-maybe-still-immature perspective. If this seems redundant to you, I’m not sorry, but that’s probably the reason why.)
It was in the hospital while cancer demanded its terrible toll of his body and dementia from something else hijacked his mind. He drifted in and out of lucidity, some hours recognizing his wife, children, and grandchildren, and entire days, not. I don’t recall how long this was before his passing, but it was one of the few times I went to see him. I was with my sister and parents, and I remember his gaunt frame lying limply against the couple of pillows that propped him up. It was around lunchtime and someone brought in his tray of food. I think it was a better day for him as he seemed to somewhat recognize us. He didn’t seem to be in the mood to eat, but I remember my dad asking him to try to eat. “For your grandchildren, they’re here right now, you have to eat to gain strength to come home and see them.” Perhaps it was hearing our names, but my grandpa began to eat, it looking to be more a chore for him than anything else. As he was still trying to eat, his body convulsed weakly and he barely had time to retch before he threw up. I can still see its distinct color, the way part of it trickled down his lip and he couldn’t really clean himself up, the way his arms looked so skinny and his body so small, so different from the grandpa who used to step on my feet, hug me, and pull my upper body higher and higher in futile attempts to help me grow. But what I remember most vividly is him putting more food into his mouth, trying to keep it down, wanting to gain strength so he could come back home.
He never left the hospital. I wasn’t with him when he passed, but what I’ve heard about his passing gives me peace whenever I think about him. Recurrent pangs of regret for not visiting him more often and not treating him better gnaw at my chest, but I’m comforted by how he’s in heaven now and has finally had the chance to hear from Jesus about why he grew up in the circumstances he did and how not a moment of his life here was wasted and how proud He is of him, of the life he battled through and the role he played in bringing his grandson to Him. I picture his smile and laughs, no longer rare expressions on his face, as he rejoices in the glory of reunion with his Father. Free of pain, free of death. I wonder if he’s met David and traded stories about me, about if he sees me doing something stupid and what his reaction would be. I don’t know the answer to these wonderings, but for now, I’m content to wonder. I’ll guess I’ll find out one day, when I’m reunited with Jesus, and reunited with him.
Dear 할아버지,
I find myself missing you dearly today.
I love you.
한솔
A few days ago, it rained in Ikoma.
It was probably raining all over Kansai but it didn’t matter much to me. It rains regularly enough to make me uncomfortable to not own a decent quality umbrella. There’s a large window in my room and just outside are shrubs and leafy bamboo plants that have made the sloping mounds their homes. I’m not particularly fond of rain and so rarely do I pay it any attention. But when it rained those few days ago, I heard a rhythmic clopping outside. I looked out the window, expecting to see a stray branch tapping the glass, but it was the percussion of raindrops hitting leaf, then leaf, then leaf, as they slid their way down to the ground. I watched for a tranquil minute. And I thought about my grandpa, my dad’s dad.
I’m not sure if it was the sound of raindeer (Get it?) on my proverbial rooftop that conjured him up, but it cast a pensive spell over my mood regardless. I think some part of me just knows that it’s April, even when I’m not necessarily aware that it’s April. My grandpa passed away during an April, you see. And so whenever he pops into my mind and stays for days, I become distinctly aware of the month.
Of course, enough time has passed now that a rose tint shades my memories of him. But when you are a child and you cannot understand much, there are seemingly ceaseless gripes you have with the adults in your family. They are there to love you and, to a child, to love you in the way you expect and desire to be loved. When they fail that, even if they are loving you truly and dearly beyond what you perceive, you huff and pout and kick and scream and cry.
I don’t know that my grandpa had the chance to be that way. To be selfish and honest about how he felt. He grew up, as many did in that day, in a poor working class home with more than a few brothers and sisters. He had several stepmothers float in and out of his life, at least one of whom was particularly nasty toward him. I don’t know all the details, and to the best of my recollection he never brought up his past with me, at least not on his own. But he had to grow up quickly. He fought in the Korean War as a young man, and arguably experienced more downs than ups throughout his life. There wasn’t much time for people in his and similar circumstances to be apathetic toward living; he had to survive.
Though I now recall his softer edges, I cannot forget his stoic temperament or his constant grumbling about one thing or another. But you grow up and try to behave the way an adult does until it takes all of thirty seconds to realize you don’t know what the hell you’re doing most of the time. And you consider your parents and your grandparents and realize that, if they’re “typical Korean” adults, they wrestled through the same situations in a culture less tolerant of expressing emotion or speaking from the heart, or other necessary components of healthy emotional processing. I don’t know if my dad ever heard from my grandpa that he loved him, which frankly, makes it a miracle and evidence that God heals and recourses the downward spirals of generational family issues, that my dad tries his best to verbally affirm me with his love. But I’ve come to the belief that it’s unfair of me to paint my grandpa in selfish, childish hues when he was never truly fathered himself. I can acknowledge his faults, but choose to remember the best of him more often. I’m feeling more and more sentimental as I type this out so I’ll share one of my most vivid memories of him with you (I’ve written about my grandpa and this situation in a post during college, and it was interesting to go back, to see and feel from an older-but-maybe-still-immature perspective. If this seems redundant to you, I’m not sorry, but that’s probably the reason why.)
It was in the hospital while cancer demanded its terrible toll of his body and dementia from something else hijacked his mind. He drifted in and out of lucidity, some hours recognizing his wife, children, and grandchildren, and entire days, not. I don’t recall how long this was before his passing, but it was one of the few times I went to see him. I was with my sister and parents, and I remember his gaunt frame lying limply against the couple of pillows that propped him up. It was around lunchtime and someone brought in his tray of food. I think it was a better day for him as he seemed to somewhat recognize us. He didn’t seem to be in the mood to eat, but I remember my dad asking him to try to eat. “For your grandchildren, they’re here right now, you have to eat to gain strength to come home and see them.” Perhaps it was hearing our names, but my grandpa began to eat, it looking to be more a chore for him than anything else. As he was still trying to eat, his body convulsed weakly and he barely had time to retch before he threw up. I can still see its distinct color, the way part of it trickled down his lip and he couldn’t really clean himself up, the way his arms looked so skinny and his body so small, so different from the grandpa who used to step on my feet, hug me, and pull my upper body higher and higher in futile attempts to help me grow. But what I remember most vividly is him putting more food into his mouth, trying to keep it down, wanting to gain strength so he could come back home.
He never left the hospital. I wasn’t with him when he passed, but what I’ve heard about his passing gives me peace whenever I think about him. Recurrent pangs of regret for not visiting him more often and not treating him better gnaw at my chest, but I’m comforted by how he’s in heaven now and has finally had the chance to hear from Jesus about why he grew up in the circumstances he did and how not a moment of his life here was wasted and how proud He is of him, of the life he battled through and the role he played in bringing his grandson to Him. I picture his smile and laughs, no longer rare expressions on his face, as he rejoices in the glory of reunion with his Father. Free of pain, free of death. I wonder if he’s met David and traded stories about me, about if he sees me doing something stupid and what his reaction would be. I don’t know the answer to these wonderings, but for now, I’m content to wonder. I’ll guess I’ll find out one day, when I’m reunited with Jesus, and reunited with him.
Dear 할아버지,
I find myself missing you dearly today.
I love you.
한솔
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