I’ve never had a green thumb. Try as I might, plants struggle under my watch. But as a child in the small greenhouse in my grandparents’ backyard, I remember fondly the soft dirt sifting through my fingers as my grandfather showed me how to re-pot a plant, being careful not to break off too many roots or leaves. He spent many hours tending to his seedlings, patiently helping them grow into something beautiful.
My grandfather lived a good life. After growing up in rural South Dakota in a closeknit family of German immigrants, he was in his early twenties when he was called to serve in World War II. It was a different time. He knew he might not make it back from the war, so he and my grandmother reversed the normal order of courting. They had only known each other a few short weeks when they decided to marry in a courthouse in Virginia. Then they got to know each other through letters written during the war years that followed.
He and his fellow soldiers fought in long, hard conditions and saw atrocities most of us cannot even imagine. My grandfather talked from time to time about the people he served with, but I don’t recall him ever mentioning the dire circumstances they all endured. In his mind, circumstances didn’t define you. It was the quality of your relationships and how you treated others that mattered most.
After the war, my grandparents eventually settled down to raise a family in Birmingham, Alabama. My grandfather went to work as a branch manager for an American business equipment manufacturer. Money was tight, but they lived within their means and saved diligently to support their growing family of five. He and my grandmother made lasting friendships with their neighbors, playing cards and having people over for dinner to cement those relationships. They all celebrated their kids’ achievements and held each other close when they mourned children who died too young. Family and friends were everything.
Later, they delighted in their grandchildren – even when we surely tried their patience by softly questioning their long-held beliefs in the name of progress and change. My grandfather served his community for years through the local Kiwanis chapter and his church. His face lit up when he talked about the lively young kids he read books to in a local youth literacy program.
All parts of a full life. A life that many would view as quite ordinary. But he knew well that the value of that seemingly ordinary existence was extraordinary given what he had experienced.
The time I saw my grandfather most reflective about his military service was when I took him to see the then-new World War II Memorial in Washington, D.C. As he sat in front of the imposing granite pillar representing those who served from his state, he grew quiet. Decades of post-war living fell away as he remembered those he served with who never made it home. His usual upbeat attitude was momentarily replaced by sadness and loss, until he looked up at me with teary eyes and smiled. He was looking at the future and could not have been more grateful to have seen it.
My grandfather was one of the lucky ones. He came back from the war and lived the rest of his 88 years with intention and purpose alongside my grandmother and their family, always appreciating that so many others never got that opportunity. The most important lesson he showed us through example is not to take this life for granted.
On Memorial Day, we remember with profound gratitude those who have given their lives as the ultimate sacrifice to preserve our freedoms. We honor them best in how we choose to live our own lives. So plant your seeds or re-pot your struggling roots. Nurture their growth until you bloom where you are planted. Choose to really live the gift of the life you’ve been given with intention and purpose in service to those around you as much as you can. For this is the highest honor we can give them.
