My Grandpa has always been a busy body. He’s a few days away from 87 and does a little more couch sitting now then before, but he’s still pretty active for a man of his years. As a kid and young adult, I often wondered where my Grandpa’s inner drive came from and why it didn’t get passed down to me. I like to do things from time to time, but I don’t seem to burn with the same desire to fill every moment of my life with something.
Recently my Grandpa faced a health challenge that could have been the beginning of the end. Not wanting to risk losing him before knowing him better, I asked him some questions in a letter. One question was about his inner fire. Where did it come from and why didn’t he pass it down genetically? My Grandpa was very candid with his answer. It wasn’t something cellular. When he was young he wasn’t all that motivated or driven. WWII changed him. He saw many of his comrades die beside him and had a few close calls himself. At the time he was a poor farm kid without a wife or family. Men dying beside him had a lot more to live for and yet he was the one to come out intact. When his foot hit American soil again he promised himself he would live his life for those who couldn’t, for those who never came home. Reading his words I knew it was the blunt truth. His life was a mission. It all made perfect sense. He came home from the War, but he never stopped being a soldier and comrade. Never.
This knowlege has made me wonder if some of us are missing out on life because we’ve never had the opportunity to experience just how precious and valuable it is.
I think it’s true that we often miss out on the moments. Unfortunately it seems as if it takes a tragedy or near tragedy to open our eyes. We often read or hear from people who’ve had a horrific experience or almost lost their life to illness, and they say how their priorities changed and they value life in a different way.