A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives. – Jackie Robinson

Last week, I was inundated with sad news. First, friends of mine lost a niece in the Thousand Oaks shooting; she was a young, beautiful Pepperdine student who was robbed of a future because of one man’s senselessness. A business acquaintances’s wife lost her battle with cancer, a fact they had kept private from most of the world, yet chose to live with genuine gratitude and positivity. And a friend’s ex wife also passed away from cancer, leaving behind their three children.

And there was the news that my ex’s grandmother was finally resting in peace after years of struggling with dementia and deteriorating health. She was a strong, single mom who raised four kids who went on to become successful doctors, lawyers, artists, and directors, yet all remained loyal and tethered to their “Ma” as they affectionately called her. She was funny, quirky, tough as nails, and loved by many.

I was surprised by how affected I was by the news of her passing. I hadn’t spoken to her in over three years, and because of the dementia, it didn’t make sense for the relatives to tell her about the divorce. Apparently she still had photos of me up at her house. Still, she had impacted me with her warmth and welcoming of me into her family, immediately insisting I called her Grandma Minnie as all the grandkids and great grandkids did. When we would visit her in New Jersey during summers or holidays, she would recount stories of a childhood in Alabama in the 1920’s and moving to New Jersey in the 1930’s. About the group of friends from her church who she traveled around the world with in her late 20’s. How she made sure all her kids went to college because her own education was cut short during a time when black women rarely had the opportunity to finish high school, let alone pursue a degree.

Not surprisingly, her passing brought up memories of my own grandparents. After my biological grandmother died when my mom was just 12, my grandfather remarried a British missionary who was living in India, so I confusingly have a white grandma. Some of my earliest memories are of summers visiting Ammachy and Appacha (the Indian version of grandma and grandpa) in their home in the Indian countryside. Visions of Appacha chasing me around their kitchen table and spoiling me with me candy are juxtaposed with remembering how his snoring seemed to shake the whole house. He died when I was 5 years old, just months after my family had emigrated from India to Canada, and his funeral was my first introduction to death and sadness.

My grandmother never remarried, but continued living in India for the rest of her days, serving those around her with the same missionary heart that brought her there in the first place. I only saw her a handful of times after we left India, but she had a tenacity and strength coupled with affection and warmth that I marvel at when I think about her. I was lucky enough to see her the year before she died, gleaning what wisdom I could from someone who had led a full life devoted to mentoring and teaching others.

Though all very different, and at completely different stages of my life, these grandparents all left an imprint on my life. They modeled how to keep going in the face of tragedy, betrayal, and loss. They knew how important it was to laugh often before all the science proved why that was true. They knew life was going to throw us younger people curve balls, but also knew that almost anything can be overcome, having survived much in their own circumstances. They all sought to make the lives of those around them better. And at the end of their days, they said whatever the heck they wanted because at that point, life must have seemed too short to mince words.

All this loss reminds me to cherish each day. To live a life of intentional significance, where even a handful of encounters can leave a lifelong impression. To hug those I hold dear.

And to all the friends and families grieving, I leave you with this verse. May it bring you a little comfort in your time of sorrow:

Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy. (John 16:22)

[Photo: my Appacha and Ammachy]