Miracles and Memories of Life

   Written 2/11/13

My grandfather passed away yesterday, one of the sunniest and brightest days that we've had so far this Winter.  The irony didn't seem to end there.

It was also our family's 'Celebrate Life' day.  Every year on February 10th, we prepare a special dinner for the boys, usually whipped cream and strawberry smothered waffles, to celebrate second chances.

On February 10, 2004 the boys and I were in a terrible car accident. 

 I was one of the 'exhausted driver' statistics.   The boys had been sick all week and I was in my first trimester of pregnancy with Eli.  I attempted to make a left hand turn on the highway as a water hauler had entered the intersection.  I had noticed his blinker on and thought he was making a right hand turn.  It was actually his hazard lights.  He didn't make a right hand turn.  He hit us.


I don't recall anything, other than being reassured that I was okay and the boys were okay.  For a moment I heard a helicopter and then everything went black.  A nurse and doctor, on their way to work, witnessed the accident and were with the boys immediately until an ambulance came as I was put on the helicopter.  They were the reassuring voices, bringing me peace in my state of unconsciousness.

I stayed the night in the hospital with our oldest who was three years old at the time.  His head shattered the window on his side of the car so the doctors wanted to keep him for observation yet I was the one who woke up in the middle of the night panicked, questioning where I was and how I got there.  Other than concussions, a scrape on his precious head, a scrape on my ankle and a couple broken ribs, we were okay.  The next day morning we walked away from the hospital battered and bruised but otherwise healthy and whole.  And alive.

 It wasn't until we went to the junk yard to retrieve some items from the totaled car that I truly appreciated the miracle that had taken place.  The left side of the car was crumpled like a soda can, my seat was completely shoved into the console.  The car doors were unhinged and hanging by scraps of metal, having been peeled back using jaws of life.  Glass was broken out of all the windows and the car was completely unrecognizable.

My view on life changed completely, understanding that our lives could've and should've ended that day.  I have no doubt that life is a miracle.

 Each day is a miracle.  

I have the privilege of holding my three healthy boys, breathe in the scent of their hair and smother their handsome faces in kisses.  This is a miracle.  That they are healthy, happy, and whole.  This is a miracle.  I get to wake each of them up every morning by tickling their feet or nuzzling their ears.  This is a miracle.  I have the privilege of celebrating their lives, not just once a year, but each day.  This is a miracle.

Thus the timing of my grandfather's passing just boggled me.  The week prior, I had just shared with a friend an analogy borrowed from Kay Warren.   Life is not a series of mountain and valley experiences but rather two parallel rails on a railroad track.  One joy, the other sorrow, running together.  Inseparably.  We have amazing opportunities to embrace joy and just as many opportunities to be be swallowed in grief and darkness.

Incredible moments of joy in life are often accompanied by moments of confusion, 

loss or pain in a different area of life.

I was having a railroad track moment.  I was celebrating life in the beautiful sunshine streaming through the window as I worked on a puzzle alongside my youngest son who I kept home from church due to his nasty cough.

Then I got the phone call from my mom about Grandpa.

I wasn't close to Grandpa, not in a kindred spirit way.  But he was my grandpa and I loved him.  He was the only grandpa I knew.  He was around quite a bit when we were younger and I have some fantastic memories of him.  Grandpa married his fourth wife while I was in high school and shortly thereafter, his youthful over-indulgent lifestyle began to take a toll.   The vibrant young man he was, or thought he was, suddenly became slower and sickly.  We grew into adults, married and moved away, beginning our own lives.   He became less visible.

As much as it pains me to admit it, I love the Grandpa I remember from my childhood -the vibrant, goofy, and passionate and sometimes irrational man.  The grandpa I've had the past decade, the one with health issues, the one who fell asleep on the phone whenever I called, the one who was a feeble shadow of the man I once knew, was harder for me to connect to.

Regardless of the grandfather that I had then versus the grandfather that I had in more recent years, I will always remember:

*His nicknames of "Frenchy" and "Riece", short for Maurice - our oldest son's namesake.

Triple Chocolate Cake for Grandpa's Remembrance

*The large gold Chevron watch that he wore every day.

*His love of the San Francisco 49ers and Joe Montana.

*His slight of hand 'magic tricks'.  He could entertain us for hours by pulling quarters from our ears, removing the tip of his thumb then putting it back together again, or removing his eye ball then putting it back in place.

*A wedge of brie cheese, a loaf of sourdough bread, and salami were constant companions if there were guests in the house, whether long-time friends, contractors, business associates, or neighbors.

*His love of Chinese food, beginning our family tradition of going out to Chinese food every Holiday season  that he visited.  This tradition still lives on in each of our homes.

Grandpa would take our family of six out to each a couple times when he visited.  This was a rare treat for our family so we tried to be on our best behavior.  It was always Mexican or Chinese food.

*How he held his glass or cigarette in one hand, keeping the other free for incessant butt pinches.  As a feisty Frenchman, he loved hugs and cuddles but pinching hineys was a sport.  He was an indiscriminate pincher of the female derriere, often catching waitresses or house guests off-guard.  He'd chuckle when his pinches caught us by surprise so we'd warily pass him, ready to run, if needed.  My mom made him stop when we reached middle school age.  She was probably afraid he'd get reported for being creepy.

*His constant productivity.  He would work on projects with my dad in the garage, buy projects (investment properties), sell projects, pay our family to work on or manage his local projects, teach others through projects, open his home to folks who were working on his projects, always with a drink or cigarette in-hand.

*His home on a hillside in Pinole, California, boasting a large and luxurious in-ground pool.  At least it seemed that way to my elementary-aged self.  Each summer, my mother loaded us four kids into our Ford LTD station wagon and we'd drive down to California, seeing various relatives but always staying at Grandpa's the longest.  On a bribe, I taught myself to swim in his pool (doggy paddle) at the ripe age of five.  I may have received a few pointers from my mom and brother.  It was at this house we experienced our first encounter with an ice cream truck and quickly learned to listen for the faint music box songs every balmy afternoon after that.  Fudgesicles delivered to the driveway were sheer ecstasy!

This house provided us the opportunity to earn money dusting Grandpa's collection of classic car-shaped Avon cologne bottles.  It was at this house that we fell in love with I Dream of Jeanne.

Our first trip to Costco was with Grandpa, our minds boggled with the large packages of food.  It was at Grandpa's I tried Menudo (Mexican Tripe Soup), taking small bites then conveniently walking around the corner to the trash where my brother and I would then spit it out, smirking over our shared secret.  It wasn't until after our bowls were finished that Grandpa, with an mischievous twinkle in his eye, explained what tripe was.

*The Huillade home (his parents home) in San Pablo California, that he moved to when I was in middle school.  This house was also on a hill, boasting a great view of the Golden Gate Bridge on those rare clear-skied days.  It had a large pasture with plum and citrus trees out back and a large painting in the hallway that was hinged, opening like door to the backside of a closet.  We were told it was constructed during Prohibition for hiding booze.  I don't know how true that was.  

This view is very similar (and closer to the bridge) to the view from my great-grandparents home.  Morning fog  is the norm.

My mother remembers her grandparents (George and Marcella Huillade) growing beautiful roses on the side of the house.  Eventually the field and fruit trees were plowed and manufactured homes were put on the property as rentals.  My brother and I spent several hours one summer sticking  ice plant shoots in the soil around the base of the newly constructed manufactured homes, grumbling at the tediousness yet happy for the cash.

*His gift of a Kitchen Aid mixer when the boys were young.  This has been one of my favorite kitchen tools, by far!  As a thank you, I baked him several batches of various goodies and sent him baked goodies every Christmas after that.

Unfortunately, there were darker sides to my grandfather.  I experienced first and second-hand broken promises, watched the drive for success and financial reward alienate him from others, his passion for women and lust for life causing multiple heartaches and his love for the bottle ultimately robbing him of his health.  Through various stories from his close friends and hired hands, I believe that my grandfather regretted some of choices and spoke of family often.  He often asked about the boys and wanted to plan trips to visit us.  Unfortunately his health steadily declined.

On this day of remembering my grandfather, regardless of the numerous character flaws, his passion for life and never-ending jokes will forever live on.  I love you, Grandpa.

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You may also enjoy:
*Choose Joy by Kay Warren (powerful analogy of the parallel tracks in life)
*Choosing to Cheat; Who Wins When Family & Work Collide by Andy Stanley, summary article by John Maxwell



Question - What three things do you want to be remembered for?