All Saints Day and All Souls Day begin the holiday season of giving thanks and remembering the birth of Jesus, but how many people truly pay attention to the meaning of both days? I certainly never gave them much thought. But, after realizing the true meaning of All Souls Day, I have reconsidered.
All Souls Day is a day to remember those who, in the past year, have passed on into death. Far from being depressing or sad, I look at the day as a chance to celebrate the lives of those who have gone before me. The day is all the more poignant this year because, in July, my grandfather died.
No amount of talking with your family members, trips to the hospitial or late night phone calls can prepare someone for the death of a loved one.
There are no words, spoken or written, that can accurately express grief and sorrow, for those two feelings are felt deep in the gut, and in the soul. All we can do is listen.
Nothing is more helpful to those who mourn than to hear stories and anecdotes about those who have gone. I have often listened to stories about my grandfather and smiled a fond smile of remembrance, for there are no stories about him that would make a person do anything but smile.
My grandfather died when he was 93 years old. He lived a long life-yes, that’s true; but that’s like saying it was OK for him to die. I don’t think it was OK. I would rather he still be alive, but I can’t change what is done. When someone dies, you remember. I remember.
Some of my fondest childhood memories come from my grandparents’ farm out in Salisbury, Mo. Acres and acres of row crops cover the land around their house, as far as the eye can see-and they live on some of the highest ground in the county, so the eye can see a long way.
Perhaps one of the best stories about my grandfather does not involve me at all-which is maybe why it’s so great. It does involve his farm, my mother, his old Ford pick-up and a traveling preacher.
My mother, sitting up front with grandpa in the cab of the truck, was making idle conversation when grandpa-who was not a man of many words-stopped at a T-intersection. There was no one coming down the road for miles and miles, but grandpa stayed stopped at the turn and stared straight ahead.
After following grandpa’s gaze, my mother clearly saw that the fence on the other side of the road was rather mangled and had quite a large hole in between two of its rustic posts. Grandpa began to explain what happened in a voice that-I pray-I will never forget.
He explained that the traveling preacher was coming into town for the Sunday service late at night and, being a preacher, was rather intoxicated. My grandparents, who didn’t always have terrible hearing, were at home that quiet night when they heard the terrible crash of a car going through a fence and into a ditch. Sure enough, when grandpa went to investigate, he found the preacher in his car, in the ditch.
The preacher, though unharmed for the most part, was clearly drunk, so grandpa drove him back to the house, where grandma cleaned the preacher up-and tried to sober him up. How many people can say they had a drunk preacher sleep it off on their couch?
My grandfather’s wry sense of humor always got the best of his stories-for after he would tell a story, he would look at you with a half smile and a twinkle in his eye. It was as though he knew it was funny, and he knew that there was humor in life. I believe that he was of a generation that could-and after serving in World War II, had to-look past the horrors and tragedies of this world and see the humor.
It is wonderful to have a day for celebrating the lives of those who have passed before us, but I believe that it is also a bit of a disappointment. Every day should be used as a day for remembering those who were close to us. Remembering loved ones isn’t being depressing or wallowing in pity; rather, it is celebrating those things that are good in life. Remembering my grandfather is remembering that a drunk-preacher story is always funny.
Andrew C. Emmerich is a senior in the College of Education and Public Service.
