Gold

"All that glitters is not gold," or so the saying goes. There is a literal truth to this, as any lady who has ever worn costume jewelry or sequins knows. Fake gold is light and flimsy. Real gold has enduring monetary value regardless of its age or even its condition. No matter how dirty it is, it can be cleaned until it gleams; no matter how outdated its form, it can be melted and reshaped. And while we can make things from gold, we cannot make gold itself. It is something that we find, not create. That is part of what makes it treasure. "All that glitters is not gold." Not everything that is eye-catching or praised has real value.

It is easy to think about gold and glitter when you're cleaning out a house--especially an attic or a garage. Matt and I have been traveling quite a bit on weekends lately, helping two sets of my grandparents downsize. It is amazing how few possessions retain their monetary value or utility over time. Many things break down or become obsolete; others go out of fashion. Some items have sentimental value, of course, but even that has to be weighed against the difficulty of maintaining the item itself. It can be hard to let go-- even if something is more glitter than gold.

The time after or around retirement is often called "The Golden Years." Like childhood, it is supposed to be free from the obligations of work, but it is deepened by the maturity and perspective of a long lifetime. It is supposed to be a time of leisure and freedom--of golf courses, long walks on the beach, and rocking chairs on a cool front porch. So say all the medicine commercials, at least. How different did those years turn out for my grandparents.

My dad's father did not want to retire. His work was part of his identity, and he enjoyed it. But last year, he had to leave his office, and it did not sit well with him. He was quiet and withdrawn and plainly unhappy. We all hoped that he would bounce back--that he would find new interests or pick up a hobby or decide to travel. But he did none of these things. He only withdrew further. In the fall, he was diagnosed with dementia, though there was medical disagreement as to the cause, type, and extent. My dad and uncles started to think about his long-term care, but plans to move him from his house seemed at least a year away.

But his condition worsened more quickly than anyone had expected, and on Mother's Day weekend of this year, he and my grandmother moved to an assisted living complex in the Dallas area. The move happened so fast, they did not have time to pack everything that they wanted. Instead, my Dad and my uncles helped them get their essentials and then planned to bring other items down to them as needed. Then, as one uncle helped them settle into their new surroundings, another went back to their old house to clear out valuable possessions and prepare the house to go on the market. My grandparents had lived in that house for over forty years. My dad spent most of his childhood there, and there I spent every childhood Christmas and part of every childhood summer. I can see every room and trace every hallway in my imagination effortlessly. It was the seat of the Lawley family, as gigantic in my mind as Chatsworth or Windsor Palace itself. I cannot imagine the pain of leaving it. But my dad said that my grandfather hardly seemed to notice.

One week ago today, I was getting ready to go and see him. My parents, children, and I had gone up to the old house to gather a few more things for the family and to designate the rest to be sold. We were the last round of sorting out the glitter and the gold. We were going to head down to Dallas on Saturday. I had last seen my grandpa in March. He came with one of my uncles and spent two days at our new house. He was quiet and difficult to engage in conversation, but he was still stubborn, independent, and physically strong. He smiled broadly at little Corin and laughed his unmistakable laugh with Lily. But I knew that he had gotten worse since then, and I tried to prepare myself a little. Then on Friday night, we got a call that he was in the emergency room. He had not been eating, and though the specialists were going to see him the following week, my uncle was concerned. I was disappointed to think that I would be visiting him in the hospital because I could not bring the kids with me. He had so enjoyed them before.

But in the early hours of Saturday morning, we got another call. My grandfather was in the ICU, and he was dying. He passed away just as day began to dawn.

We stayed in his house, preparing it now to receive his widow and his other sons and grandchildren as they came for his funeral. In the days that followed, we had to continue our task of sorting the house's contents, but our value judgments changed. Suddenly, items that we were willing to part with a few days before seemed literally indispensable.  We could not part with them. Nothing about their monetary value had changed, but now, more than ever, they reminded us of him, and in that, they became powerfully valuable because he was valuable. He was beloved. His memory was treasured. He was gold.

I cannot express how much I miss him. I miss his goofy chuckle and his full-bodied laugh, his firm handshake and his strong embrace. I miss his loud voice and his deep conviction, and the way I could feel his delight when he answered the phone with, "Hey, Lindsay!" I miss his fast, confident walk, striding around his back yard or outpacing us as kids at Disney World. I miss his sprightly enjoyment of early mornings, even when he set off my parents' house alarm. I miss his humor, even when it was directed at me, giving me a cookbook and an apron for Christmas with a note about "women's work," yet bursting with pride at my graduations. I am sorry that my children will not grow up with him, but I will tell them stories, for he had enough character and personality for hundreds of stories--stories to make them laugh and stories to make them think--so many stories that I hope they grow up and say, "He died when I was young, but I feel like I know him." And I will make sure that they spend plenty of time with their own grandfather, my Dad, Bompa's son, who bears so much of what was wonderful about him. It is part of Bompa's legacy for my children to love my Dad like I loved his.

Even before Bompa died, I had been thinking of Tolkien's inversion of "all that glitters..." In The Lord of the Rings, Bilbo's poem for Aragorn begins, "All that is gold does not glitter." It's not just that flashy things might not have value but that valuable things might be difficult to spot. In the later days of my grandfather's illness, there was hardly any glitter left. He had left his home and most of his things behind, and the sparkle of his personality and the twinkle in his eye were dimmed by the deterioration of his mind and body. But he was still golden to us, a treasure of enduring worth who we could never have created but were blessed to find.

On the morning he died, I thought of the rest of Tolkien's poem. It speaks of constancy and renewal. I and all who loved Bompa think that some core of him remained steadfast. He told my dad not many months ago that he was often quiet not because he did not understand, but because he was struggling to hold on to everything his mind had left. In the emergency room on his last night, he winked at my grandmother. And though I am struggling in faith just now, the hope of Christ is that Bompa is now whole again.

"All that is gold does not glitter.
Not all those who wander are lost.
The old that is strong does not wither.
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken.
A light from the shadow shall spring.
Renewed shall be blade that was broken.
The crownless again shall be king."
(Tolkien)