DEAR Charlie,
Two weeks ago, the Lord called you home. The past year had been brutal on your physical well-being, so much so that people forget just how full of life and vigor you were. I have not and I choose to celebrate your life. Before a stroke took away your physical strength, you were putting 20- and 30-year-olds to shame with your work ethic. You put seven-year-old Jedd to shame when I huffed and puffed trying to keep up with your brisk walking (I was pretty outta shape, though).
I’ve learned a lot from our conversations (even if they were mostly about how bright our days were whenever the Los Angeles Lakers would lose), but I’ve learned even more just by observing you.
In the office, you were bullheaded (some say almost unnecessarily), no-nonsense, calculated but also fearless. If you had a flaw, it was that you cared too much; you wanted everyone around you to not have to worry about a heavy load. That was how you were wired.
At home, the tough businessman transformed into a doting father/grandfather/brother/uncle who always made sure that everyone was well fed and felt at ease. You’d lend relatives money without so much as a second thought as to when (or if) they’d pay you back. And like any other grandparent, you would have given your grandkids the world had they asked hard enough.
They didn’t, so you settled for spoiling them silly with toys, clothes and Sunday dinners. You made sure that life was good—great—for them. And because of that, they may not know that it was during the hard times when you learned the lessons that molded you:
What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.
It’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.
Success doesn’t come overnight.
Excellence rewards the one who goes the extra mile.
There is no substitute for the discipline of the little things.
The care a person gives to the menial duties is the care he gives to his larger responsibilities.
I know, Charlie, that people are uncomfortable with the idea of me addressing my lolo like that, since only your closest friends call you that. Humor me a bit; let your apo address you like a man, not a 10-year-old who wants a new toy.
Farewell. You may be gone, but your legacy lives on. I promise to honor that legacy as I navigate the world without you. Forgive me for being such a punk during the last years of your pre-stroke life (I regret it to this day) and being difficult to deal with now. I’m terrible at processing the grief, but you’d tell me to get off my butt and run my race. And I will, one slow step at a time. I hope I do you proud one day.
Your tsao apo,
Jedd