(Even When We Drag Our Feet) Our Hearts Can Be Grateful
I walked across the backyard for what felt like the one thousandth time. Begrudgingly, I dragged my feet across the grass, leaving lines behind me. I was surprised there was not already a well-worn path between Grandpa’s home and ours. Ever since he and Grandma had built a house behind us the year after Grandma’s fall, we made frequent trips through the yard to help with daily tasks, drive to doctor’s appointments, or prepare meals when they did not eat at our table.
Of course, he’d always treat me to fudge ice cream bars as a thank-you, even though both of us knew mom would shake her head at the very idea of eating dessert before dinner. (Probably the general idea of dessert at all . . .) But it was our secret—me and Grandpa. And despite how much I dragged my feet to get there, I always left feeling a little lighter.
Gratitude and guilt
In the days after Grandma died, Grandpa called me to come over once again. I walked across the yard and through the back door, into what he called the “Florida room.” Windows on three sides, light fell into the Florida room at all hours of the day, cascading across Grandma’s ficus and ferns and numerous other plants Grandpa had learned to water as if they were his own. While a farmer by trade, I’m not sure Grandpa was much of a plant person, but he cared for them tenderly, faithfully, much like he had cared for Grandma in her final days.
She had not been the same for years since the seizure. Toward the end, when she was confined to a wheelchair and her movements were haphazard at best, he held her hand anyway. More than once, I caught him gingerly combing her white hair, knowing the wife he married with her ornate perfumes and Avon lipstick would have cared about such things. He loved her well to the very end.
Lifting my eyes from the plants, I walked from the Florida room into the dining area where Grandpa stood. Shifting his feet from side to side, he extended his leathered hand to reveal a small emerald box. I took it wordlessly, the unspoken question lingering between us.
“I want you to have this,” he explained.
I cracked open the box to find Grandma’s ring. He had bought the small diamond set in a simple gold band after Grandma was not really Grandma anymore. While he did not speak the words publicly at the time, I knew it was his way of saying to her but perhaps also to himself, “Til death do us part.” And now he wanted me to have it.
A torrent of feelings rushed over me as he continued, “You have helped me and Grandma so much, and I want you to have her ring.”
I slipped the gold silently onto my finger, tears hot against my face. A slurry of gratitude mixed with guilt swirled inside me. I thought about all the times I had resisted helping, all the times I had not gone willingly. I did not feel like I deserved such a gift, and yet in the same moment, an appreciation began to form for all those treks across the grass. All those visits—all those times spent making spaghetti or shucking corn, cleaning bathrooms or running errands—once a burden became a blessing. An undeserved and altering type of blessing.
It’s been nearly twenty-five years since I inherited Grandma’s ring, a gift that became even more dear when Grandpa passed away from cancer just a few years later. I still wear the band on my left hand, and frequently throughout the day, I find myself twirling it gently.
Even when we drag our feet
And when I notice that the skin beneath the band is a little lighter, untouched by the sun, I realize how the ring has become a part of me. It is no longer just a token of my grandparents and their love for each other, but a tangible reminder of what it looks like to love well. Even when I do not want to. Even when I drag my feet across the grass. Because, despite all the ways we get it wrong, love has a way of making things right.
Meet Sarah Westfall
Sarah E. Westfall is a writer whose words explore faith, belonging, and how we can all be a little more human together. Sarah lives for slow Saturday mornings at home, sipping pour-over coffee with her husband Ben as their four sons play (very loudly). You can connect with Sarah on Instagram or subscribe to her weekly Substack letter, Human Together.
Where to find her . . .
Begin Within is a series to inspire a year-round lifestyle of gratitude that will impact not only your own life, but the lives of your neighbors as well. Gratitude is a theme we talk about often around here because it ties so closely into other missional living rhythms. Practicing gratitude reminds to keep our hearts soft and expectant and our eyes open. Therefore, the more we embrace gratitude, the easier it becomes to truly see our neighbors and where we can join what God is already doing in our neighborhoods.
If you would like to contribute to Begin Within, you can find the submission guidelines here.
10 Things You Might Be Doing That Keep Your Friendships Shallow
(+ 1 Simple Habit to Shift Your Direction)
If you long for deep, meaningful relationships, this is for you!
Creating Ripples
If you would like to cultivate rhythms in addition to gratitude that will empower you live on mission in your neighborhood, check out Cultivating a Missional Life: A 30-Day Devotional to Gently Help You Open Your Heart, Home, and Life to Your Neighbors. This small book will help you make a big impact in your neighborhood as you learn to let missional living flow from the inside out. Get the 30-day missional living challenge free when you purchase the book.
