When I was in high school, my grandfather was in the final stage of life. Parkinson's disease and Alzheimers had robbed this once powerful, self-sufficient man of his dignity and functions, reducing him to a wheelchair-bound existence. Many times he did not know who people were, even his own family.
We went to Louisville, where he and my grandmother lived, to celebrate my dad's birthday. Grandad was not having a good day, and he didn't recognize the family in front of him. It was a sad day for us, especially for my dad whose own dad didn't recognize him at his own birthday.
It came time to open presents, and we all gave our gifts. My grandmother and Grandad had gotten my dad a card. I saw it- my grandmother had written a beautiful message to my dad, several paragraphs long. Underneath it, in a barely recognizable scrawl, was the message from my Grandad. It simply said, "Love, Dad."
Some time later, I saw my grandmother and my dad over in the corner, talking. My grandmother had a sheet of notebook paper that she was showing my dad, and both of them had tears in their eyes. I went over to see what was going on.
On the piece of notebook paper, I saw written out about thirty or forty times, in barely recognizable handwriting, the words "Love, Dad."
I knew exactly what it was. My grandmother said to my dad, "I found this on the bedside table under some books. I don't think he wanted anyone to see it." My grandfather's Parkinson's disease had made handwriting nearly impossible for him, and before he signed a birthday card to his son, he practiced.
He practiced those two words over and over again so that when he signed the card to his son, it would be his best. He wasn't going to give anything other than his best to his son on his birthday.
That's what love looks like. A man, robbed of his ability to even write, spent time practicing what he would offer to his son on his birthday. Love means that we give our best without hesitation, without cajoling, without pressure, without force. We freely and joyfully give our best to the ones we love, just like my grandfather did to my dad on his birthday.
My Grandad died a few months later. I doubt that I remember any of the gifts that were given that birthday. I don't know if my dad got shirts or clothes or money or anything else. I do, however, remember my Grandad taking his time to practice his writing so that his son would get the best he had to offer on his birthday.
Love looks like giving your best. Your love for family, your love for God, your love for your community- it means to give your best. Today is Sunday morning. I hope you, like me, are planning on giving your best to your heavenly Father this morning. Not out of obligation, not out of fear, not out of guilt, but out of love.
Love looks like giving your best.
We went to Louisville, where he and my grandmother lived, to celebrate my dad's birthday. Grandad was not having a good day, and he didn't recognize the family in front of him. It was a sad day for us, especially for my dad whose own dad didn't recognize him at his own birthday.
It came time to open presents, and we all gave our gifts. My grandmother and Grandad had gotten my dad a card. I saw it- my grandmother had written a beautiful message to my dad, several paragraphs long. Underneath it, in a barely recognizable scrawl, was the message from my Grandad. It simply said, "Love, Dad."
Some time later, I saw my grandmother and my dad over in the corner, talking. My grandmother had a sheet of notebook paper that she was showing my dad, and both of them had tears in their eyes. I went over to see what was going on.
On the piece of notebook paper, I saw written out about thirty or forty times, in barely recognizable handwriting, the words "Love, Dad."
I knew exactly what it was. My grandmother said to my dad, "I found this on the bedside table under some books. I don't think he wanted anyone to see it." My grandfather's Parkinson's disease had made handwriting nearly impossible for him, and before he signed a birthday card to his son, he practiced.
He practiced those two words over and over again so that when he signed the card to his son, it would be his best. He wasn't going to give anything other than his best to his son on his birthday.
That's what love looks like. A man, robbed of his ability to even write, spent time practicing what he would offer to his son on his birthday. Love means that we give our best without hesitation, without cajoling, without pressure, without force. We freely and joyfully give our best to the ones we love, just like my grandfather did to my dad on his birthday.
My Grandad died a few months later. I doubt that I remember any of the gifts that were given that birthday. I don't know if my dad got shirts or clothes or money or anything else. I do, however, remember my Grandad taking his time to practice his writing so that his son would get the best he had to offer on his birthday.
Love looks like giving your best. Your love for family, your love for God, your love for your community- it means to give your best. Today is Sunday morning. I hope you, like me, are planning on giving your best to your heavenly Father this morning. Not out of obligation, not out of fear, not out of guilt, but out of love.
Love looks like giving your best.
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