Across the Distance

I wanted to be with my grandpa. He was in Indiana with my aunt as his primary caregiver. I went as often as I could, but my job as a youth minister and my graduate studies kept me away more than I wanted. If I couldn’t be there with him physically, what would be the best way to show him how much I was thinking of him?

I decided to send him a card every single week. It became a ritual for me. I’d go to the store and wander the aisles of cards. Funny ones. Kind ones. Quirky ones. After I wrote my messages in them, I selected a stamp based on something Grandpa loved: mountains, coins, books. We talked on the phone daily, when he was up for it, and he’d always tell me when he’d gotten my card.

On Valentine’s Day, I visited him. We lay together on his bed, listening to the baseball game on the radio, holding hands. My aunt had hung up all the cards I’d sent. By then, there were a lot; all four walls were covered.

After my grandpa died, my aunt sent me a card. The image on the front matched one I’d sent to him months before. “Your cards really brightened up his days,” she wrote. “He looked forward to them so much.” Even from a distance, I’d been able to make a difference.