For almost a year, I avoided visiting my grandpa.

I had my reasons—work, kids, other obligations. But mostly, I wasn’t ready to sit in the empty space where I used to meet my grandma.

Growing up, I wasn’t close to my grandpa. He wasn’t the type to relate to kids, and our conversations always felt a little strained. Most of my visits were about my grandma—eating her famous chocolate chip waffles, playing Rummy, or catching up on life.

That started to change when my grandma’s health declined. As she lost her vision and had trouble speaking, I spent more time with my grandpa by default. And for the first time, he started to engage.

When she passed, I visited their apartment a couple of times after the funeral, but it wasn’t the same. She was missing, and I wasn’t ready to sit in that absence.

So I didn’t.

Then, Thanksgiving came.

I was already at my parents’ house when my dad helped my grandpa inside. Slowly, carefully, he guided him into the living room and settled him into a chair.

The moment I saw him, something in me cracked.

He looked thinner, weaker—sunken in a way that made my stomach clench. How had I let this much time pass?

Guilt hit hard. But I knew guilt wasn’t from God.

Conviction was.

So I made a decision.

Every Thursday, I would visit him.

No more excuses.

Showing Up, But Not on My Terms

At first, I thought my visits needed a purpose. Maybe I could have deep talks with him, bring up faith, make the most of our time.

But God interrupted that thinking fast.

"Go, but don’t go with an agenda. Just love him."

That’s all.

No pressure. No timeline. No expectations.

Just presence.

Some days we talked. Some days we just sat there, the silence stretching long. When his hearing was nearly gone, I’d write notes on paper so he could read them.

And when even that became too much, I just sat beside him.

And somehow, that was enough.

The Unexpected Acceleration

I had only been visiting my grandpa for a little over a month when everything changed.

One week, I arrived at his apartment like usual—only to learn he was in the hospital.

His health had declined, and he had been admitted earlier that week. The moment I heard, my conviction deepened—I had missed enough time.

"I’m going to see him even more now. No more missed opportunities."

But before I could even make my second visit to him at the hospital I learned his health had declined further.

He was being moved to hospice care.

This time, the guilt hit harder.

"I’m out of time."

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had waited too long—that I had wasted the last year and now I would never get it back.

Finally, I brought it to prayer.

And once again, guilt turned into conviction.

"I will see him every single day from now on."

Once he was settled in, I visited him the next afternoon. Then again later that same night before heading home.

The next day, I would return.

And I had no idea it would be the last time.

The Final Morning

I had planned to visit at 1:00 PM—my usual time.

But something unexpected happened.

Normally, my family takes one car to church together, but this particular morning, we drove two cars.

Instead of going home after church for lunch with my family, I felt convicted to drive straight to see my grandpa.

I arrived at 11:45 AM.

And that changed everything.

A Subtle Shift, Then the Realization

My dad and brothers were there. We were all in the room. My grandpa’s breathing was different—fast and shallow.

There was tension in the air. It felt off, but not dramatic.

We made quiet small talk for a while until one by one people trickled out and only my brother and I remained.

After a little while, my brother left the room to get more coffee.

Shortly after he left, I glanced at my grandpa.

Something felt wrong.

He wasn’t breathing.

I waited—one second, two. Expecting another breath.

But it didn’t come.

A brief moment of panic.

Then, strangely, peace.

I stood up, walked out, and locked eyes with my brother.

"We need to find a nurse."

They called the time of death at 12:57 PM.

If I had waited until 1:00 PM, I wouldn’t have been there.

But it wasn’t just his passing that I would have missed.

It was what happened next.

The Final Five Minutes

When I was seven years old, my other grandpa passed away. Soon after, I learned something that stuck with me:

Hearing is one of the last senses to go at death.

It brought comfort to know that he had been able to hear family around him in his last moments.

And now, as I sat beside my grandpa, God brought it back to mind.

For the next few minutes, I knew he could still hear me.

The night before, I had turned on the Golf Channel—his favorite. But instead of golf, a strange commercial played.

No branding. No flashy graphics. Just a message about moral injury—the guilt that convinces people they are beyond forgiveness and love.

It didn’t even feel like an ad.

More like a whisper from God.

And now, sitting beside my grandpa, I understood why I had seen it.

So I spoke.

Not loudly. Not forcefully.

Just gently and clearly.

"You don’t have to carry it anymore."

"There is love, peace, and forgiveness for you."

"It’s already been paid for. All you have to do is say yes."

And then, I knew.

He was gone.

God is a God of the Present

In the days that followed, I braced myself for regret.

I expected the weight of shame to mingle with the grief and sweep me away.

"You should have gone sooner. You wasted a year."

But those lies never came.

Instead, God reminded me:

"Before Abraham was, I Am"

He is God of the present.

Not the past—where guilt tries to trap us.

Not the future—where fear tries to keep us from trusting.

It’s right here. Right now.

So all I could do was show up in the now.

Who Needs You to Show Up?

Who in your life needs you to just show up?

Because God is here, today, in you.

And that’s enough.

Until next time,
Addison