Flash back to the summer of 2007. It was a beautiful June evening. I was driving my three-year-old granddaughter Miranda home from that evening's Vacation Bible School at church. She had been in my class, and we had shared some fun that evening, and learned some good lessons about how God loves us.
It seemed like a good idea to try to reinforce the evening's lessons on the drive home.
As we drove down Gray Road, Miranda was looking towards the western sky, and noticed the beautiful multi-colored clouds glowing from the rays of the setting sun. "Grandpa, look at the pretty sky," she said.
"It is pretty," I replied, "And someday, when I die and go to heaven, I will get to see beautiful skies like that all the time."
It got very quiet in the back seat. Finally Miranda asked, "Grandpa, are you going to die?"
Uh-oh. Somehow this inspirational conversation had veered off into a dark place. When will I learn to choose my words more carefully around small children? Not soon enough, as you will soon see.
I don't think well under pressure (or most other times, either, for that matter). When I make quick decisions I usually regret them. This occasion would prove to be no exception. My brain was going into panic mode, trying to calculate, in the space of 5 seconds or so, how to reply to this innocent little girl in a way that would minimize her anxiety.
For lack of a better idea, I went with the old casual, matter-of-fact approach. I swear, before I said it, it sounded good in my head.
"Of course, honey," I said casually, "Everybody is going to die someday."
It got really quiet in the back seat again. I was hoping for a quick change of subject.
I still cringe inwardly when I recall what I heard next: the sound of Miranda's panicked little voice echoing from the back seat, "YOU MEAN WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE?"
Lord, just take me now, I thought to myself. Maybe I could get away on Southwest Airlines before I had to face my daughter, Miranda's mom.
I did my best to back-pedal, but there was no place to go. A hard truth was out of the bag, and it couldn't be denied. Three years old is a bit young to be thinking about mortality, but thanks to me, "Grandpa Death", Miranda had something new to worry about.
I tried to candy-coat it, talking about how young we were, and it would be a long, long, long time before any of us would be dying, and how dying is just part of life, and how, if we knew Jesus, we would see God and be in heaven when we died. I rambled all over the place, trying to do some damage control.
I sure wish there were times when God would just give us a do-over.
Finally we arrived at Miranda's home. I didn't know what to say to her mom Stephanie, my only daughter, my eldest child, who would most likely be choosing my nursing home someday, and with whom I had hoped to maintain a positive relationship.
For lack of a better idea, I didn't say anything. So far, every time I had opened my mouth, things had gotten worse. I decided to just shut up for a while.
The next evening, I thought I had better mention this incident to Stephanie, just in case little Miranda had remembered our conversation. So I called her, feeling quite humbled and penitent, and did my best to explain how I had inadvertently shattered her daughter's innocent ignorance about her own mortality. I went through the whole spiel about the VBS and the clouds and heaven and when I finally got done, Stephanie said, "So THAT'S where she got it."
Apparently the day had been filled with non-stop discussions of death, and how everybody is going to die, and when would the dog die, and did dogs go to heaven, and when are you going to die mommy, and on and on and on. If you have ever been a parent, I'm sure you can imagine what it must have been like.
My daughter, being a kind and merciful person, has forgiven me for being such a stupid grandpa. She knows I didn't mean to do it.
I have learned a valuable lesson. Be really careful what you say to young children, because they will always be listening to anything that you wish they had not heard. They may forget every wise thing you ever told them, but say something stupid one time, and 20 years later they'll be on a couch telling their therapist the story of how you traumatized their childhood.
In the future, I am going to play it safe and cop out whenever possible. If any of my grandchildren ever ask questions about sex, all they will get out of me is name, rank, serial number, and a story about storks and cabbage patches. I'm leaving the hard stuff for mom and dad.
* Note to Stephanie -- Should I live long enough to require nursing care, I would still prefer that quiet corner room with the lake view at the Shady Acres Rest Home.
