Santa never failed.
Now, he never personally made it to our home, but he never failed. He always made sure that in his absence, Grandma and Grampa were able to deliver all of his gifts.
It would always be a sunny December afternoon when Grampa Jack’s old truck would pull up in front of our yard. He and grandma always seemed to bring Santa’s entire workshop—a multitude of bags lining the bed of his old Ford. It was a happy moment as they walked into our home and hugged us tightly, saying they had received good reports from Santa.
Christmas was always a favorite memory for me, so I wonder if it’s no coincidence that Grampa Jack passed away within weeks of it.
Today marked the one year anniversary of his passing.
Living 2,000 miles away, one would think ignoring the pain would be easy. And for a year, it was. Pushing away the pain was as simple as not calling home. However, with as many band-aids as we lace upon our wounds, God is determined to heal us in a different way—His way.
“If we do not allow God to deal with the wound beneath the layers we dress it in, we stand to infect our heart and suffer a more serious malady later when the same issues or things that remind us of the past resurface in the new situation.” Michelle McKinney Hammond
November 1st marked the first day at my new branch. Within the first month I had met many of my coworkers. Gwen, Samontra, Lisa, Ronnie, Bryant, Gary, Ted, Wanda, Loretta, Sophia, Trevor, Tyler…Jack.
Jack came to my window one morning. As I looked at his transaction, I must have read his name three, four, ten times.
Jack Bock.
I had never met another Bock in my entire 25 years of living. Imagine my surprise upon seeing not only a Bock, but Jack Bock. After a year of ignoring my pain, God decided he wasn’t going to let it be untapped any longer. In front me, daily, stands my grampa’s namesake.
So every day now I am reminded of him. Every day I see Jack Bock I think of my Jack Bock. In my mind, I tell him I love him, and I say a prayer. I think of his hugs, his smile, and the way he smelled. He smelled like a grampa.
Santa never failed. But I did.
I love you, Grampa Jack. I’m sorry it took me a year to think of you, to come to terms with losing you. I feel ashamed for being selfish and choosing to live 2,000 miles away from you—from my entire family. We lost touch as I grew up and moved on. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry I didn’t get to say good-bye. I’m sorry you’re gone and I missed you. I miss you. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better granddaughter.
I remember the last time I saw you. We were on your back porch with Grandma and Steven, talking. You were frail, and I felt guilt even then for moving away. I’m sorry I’ll never get to sit and talk with you again. To hear your raspy voice and to smell the faint waft of cigarette smoke that I hated, but somehow now would find so comforting. Thank you for loving my grandma and for being that father-figure for my father. Thank you for you, and I pray that our paths will one day cross again in God’s kingdom.
