In the distant past, the fog clears and a wisp of a scent or action rises to the surface of my mind. There's a moment that I remember an older gentleman sitting next to me in my chair and feeding me a liquid that I later learned was coffee.
My grandfather loved me, so I was told. I think I was three or four at the time and I must have loved him back to remember just that instant of time.
I would have loved to have known him when I was more aware, more cognizant of my family and surroundings.
You see, he was killed in the coal mines. My grandfather worked the mines in Scranton, Pa. His family never thought too much of his vocation but being an immigrant from Switzerland, he had little opportunity to better himself. He only did what he knew. The job paid the bills.
One day, there was a cave in. My grandfather was able to get out but when he heard that others were trapped, he returned to the hole and saved lives. The sad part is that he never returned.
I like to think that someday when I meet him in heaven, I can tell him how proud I am of a man that I barely knew but loved. I am blessed to have that kind of bravery and compassion in my bloodline.
I believe that God rewards those who place their lives on the line for others, don't you?