A Grumpy Old Man

My sister and I have only been attending our church for a few years. It’s a small church, no more than 100 people most weeks. We made it a point early on to go around introducing ourselves. Before and after service, we would walk the pews shaking hands and hugging necks (this was pre-COVID times of course). We became known amongst the congregation for our “sweet” disposition. At first, it felt nice. . . To be recognized in such a way. But, as time passed, this image people had of us began to feel like a weight. I felt as if I was obligated to put on my best face, even when I found myself in a depressive state last Spring. To greet everyone, even when I’d rather stay silent. To shake hands and hug necks, like I once so joyously did, even when I’d rather do anything but. Something we’d started as a way to break the ice and build fellowship became the one thing I came to dread every Sunday.

An older couple that I never failed to greet could be found at the very back of the building. They were always so kind to me and would often wrap me into small conversations before service.

Next to them, sat a man. I couldn’t tell you his exact age, but his liver spotted hands, wrinkled complexion, and wisps of white hair suggested he was at least a decade older than the couple. I never once saw this man talk to anyone, not even the pastor. His lack of a ring led me to believe that he wasn’t married, or perhaps that he was widowed. And he always wore an off putting expression. A mix between a grimace and a frown, if you can picture it.

At some point, I’d decided to start greeting him as well as the couple solely because it felt strange to walk past him without saying a word. And so, he became a small part of my Sunday morning rounds.

“Good morning!” I’d smile. It was always returned with that expression of his.

“How are you?” I’d ask, though he never answered.

“Good to see you,” I’d hug him before moving on.

It made me feel awkward, of course, speaking to someone who 1) didn’t know me and 2) could probably care less. Still, I continued to greet him each Sunday.

When COVID hit, that man stopped coming to church, as did most of the elderly members. It’s been nearly a year now since the last time I saw him. I didn’t know his name. He’d never told me. He surely didn’t know mine.

I attend a college not far from my church. During exam week, I’d decided not to go and was surprised to receive a call from my sister that Sunday.

“Do you remember the old man who sat in the back of church?” She asked.

I did.

“Well, he died recently.”

I didn’t know how to react. I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear that of all things.

“His son was at service today,” she said.

I didn’t even know he had a son.

“He told me that his dad used to talk about you sometimes.”

My heart skipped.

“He said that you always spoke to him and hugged him. He said you were sweet.”

I cried when that phone call ended. I don’t know for how long, but it was a while.

I hadn’t known. Hadn’t realized that my small action meant anything to him. I didn’t even know his name. And now he’s gone.

I continue to greet people at church now. And I do it with a full heart, regardless of my mood. That old man, though it wasn’t his intention, has given me something so valuable that I’ll keep with me until my days eventually end. He’s given me a reason to be kind to everyone, not just those I know or those who have helped me or those who were kind to me first. It’s so easy to say hello to a friend. And it’s almost second nature to smile at someone who’s smiled at you. But it’s something else entirely when you remove the things that make it so easy.

I don’t mean for this to bring you down, but I wanted to share it. If we could all just do something so small as a “Hi, How ya doin?” Imagine all the lives that could be monetarily touched! Something insignificant to you could mean so much more to the most unlikely of people.

I’ll always be grateful for that old man, and he’ll forever hold a special place in my heart. The mere thought of him now brings a smile to my face. His wisps of white hair and grumpy disposition. I see him now in the faces of others and am glad for it. It’s a reminder, one that I sometimes still need.