Rossy

My grandfather is probably still my favorite person ever. For whatever reason, we always called him Rossy. His name was Ross, but Rossy meant love.

He died when I was six or seven and there's still and empty spot in me where he used to live. I don't remember his voice any more. If it weren't for cameras, I'd have long since forgotten what he looked like.

But I'll never forget him. He probably wasn't a big man, but he seemed like it. His hands seemed big to me, too. They seemed big and strong. Maybe they weren't, but they seemed like it. God, I loved him. I think I loved him more than anyone I've ever known. He knew me and I was okay with him. He loved me and accepted me as I was and he was happy to be with me. The thing I remember most was how gentle he was.

When he died, the spot he occupied in my soul died with him. And I've never been gentle like he was.

Jesus, according to the Gospel of John, was gentle with the woman accused of adultery. He was gentle with the woman who touched his cloak and with the rich young man. He took away the boulder on their souls. It'd be interesting to know if they were able to resist taking it back.

You can't be gentle and have peace until you put down the things that you carry with you. To put them down, you have to acknowledge them and acknowledge that they are yours and what the results were. You can't put down what you don't acknowledge. And only after you acknowledge it, all of it, can you shed it and go to the throne as what you really are.

That's what my grandfather taught me, was his unreserved joy at being with me. But for me to share his joy, I had to be able to be unreservedly joyful with me. Until very recently, I haven't been able to do that.

I think I understand now. I understand what his presence was supposed to teach me.

I think he's happy that I get it.