The Flower Grandpa

A few weeks ago I started trying to breathe in people's stories. Not in the nod your head and smile kind of way, but in a slow me down and let me understand you kind of way. 

 

While I am boiling dumplings at my archaic stove, this man has become a mini-series of stories for my mind to enjoy. Daily he wanders downstairs to water his plants or dry out red beans in the afternoon sun. His lanky shoulders tower over dainty dandelions as he steals dirt and puts it into his house plants. He shifts the dirt into piles so that passersby won’t notice what he’s doing. But I see. I watch his sly grin purse as he pats down the new dirt and he gingerly tends to the garden already there. As if being gentle minimizes the fact that he is stealing their dirt.

My kids roll through and talk to him. I watch him teach them about uses of the sunlight and how much water to feed a potted aloe plant. He laughs and sometimes scolds as my kids take off their shoes to run around in bare-footed freedom.

I’ve never seen a wife, son, or daughter with him. But his connection with his plants has become a stop in curiosity for me. He tenderly wipes their leaves with a soft rag. The flowers are spoken to. I haven’t listened to what he is saying, but I imagine he is telling them that he will be back tomorrow. That tonight it’s going to rain, so they will need to be brave. But he will be back tomorrow. As he exhorts the tiny dandelions all tucked in for the night, I see his sense of purpose straighten out his shoulders.

 

With retirement he was replaced by talent and youth. That did not go unnoticed. But he walked into retirement determined to find his place. While he is no longer a manager of hundreds of people, he knew he could be a manager of a few. He knew that instead of letting retirement be defined by self-indulgence and pity, he could still serve someone else. He walks down those concrete stairs each late afternoon, looking around to try to find a need to be met. It requires keen observation to see a need that is buried beneath the surface of things. It requires patience and thoughtful digging to bring resolution. But because he is willing to engage the world in such a way, rows of dandelions march through the summer breeze in confidence. My kids run downstairs to ask him questions because they know he will take the time to answer. He is present. Presence sees the person in front of you not as a task but as a story.  And in that presence he is listening.

Today this man reminded me...

 

There is a single ,particular group of people that I find nearly impossible to love unconditionally. The Chinese grandparent. I historically have seen them as demanding, critical, and inflexible. A few months ago I started having a "What Would Jesus Do?" moment. He would clearly not avoid old people. So I've started to take time to either ask them their stories or pause and remember that they have a story, even if I don't get to hear it. It's been in their stories that I've found a softening and appreciation for all they have been through.  

Pining through the suburbs of Shanghai where even the food smells rich, this man slowly shuffled down the uneven backstreets. Passing them I felt the heavy determination of his legs as he forsook his wheelchair, opting for independence instead. It seems as if a stroke kidnapped his dreams and mocked his future. Walking, I watched his history rolling passed him like a silent film.

A smokey room parts as the younger version of him blinks his watery eyes and spots his bride for the first time. She shifts in her chair and allows the right corner of her lips to fold gently into smile. She turns away but through the wisps of her dark tussled hair, peeks in his direction, willing him over to her. As they begin talking, words seem to be spilling into a river of comfort. As if somewhere before their lives had met and shared the same waters.

The conversation began to carve into the earth, permanently marking out a future. Contours of a marriage, banks of parenthood, currents of traveling the country together.  

As they married and started a family, they held onto dreams like a well-worn quilt. Tucked between the two of them at night, laid down to be forgotten as they drifted in and out of work each day. Their hopes became grey hairs and arthritic knees. At times forgotten. Maybe not forgotten as much as fictionalized. With age came a reality that needed to be attended to.

After his wife died, his mind surrendered. Actualizing dreams without the person who conjured them with you somehow made them seem child-like. Hoping seemed like something left for people with plenty of time left. He was running out. Future was no longer measured in years, but in moments.

As I watch him place his feeble arms onto the security of the wheelchair, he shifts his feet forward. For a brief moment he wants to feel his independence holding up his entire self. He wants to be reminded that his body is more than a shell. He has not forgotten how to hope, his hopes have just become a matter of the daily. See, he doesn’t’ have time to wait on ‘one day’. He is living in the now because there is no guarantee of a later. His stiffened arms and locked in grimace are a reminder that to wait is to squander. To wait is to let fear win. So he bears down on his weakened legs and tries to walk. It is slow. It is full of labor and pain. But aren’t all things worth hoping for full of those? Demanding hope to be pain-free and easy is minimalizing hope to a simple wish. Wishes don’t keep us alive.

  Hope does.