Honoring My Grandfather: Crossing a Threshold and Embracing Change

This weekend, I flew home to Maryland for my grandfather’s funeral. Though I was saddened by his passing, I felt deeply grateful to celebrate his 94 years of life. He was my last living grandparent, a presence in my life for nearly 35 years, and saying goodbye felt like the closing of a chapter—not just in my family’s history, but in my own personal and spiritual journey.

In many ways, this trip felt like a crossing of a threshold, a moment of transformation where I sensed that old layers of my identity were being shed and new responsibilities were being handed down. It reminded me of the classic hero’s journey—a call to adventure, trials to endure, and a culminating challenge that forces inner change.

A Military Farewell

The funeral took place in New York at a military cemetery, where my grandfather, a Korean War veteran, was honored with a traditional service. The first thing I noticed upon arriving was the meticulous order of the cemetery. The headstones, all identical in size and shape, stretched out in perfect lines from every angle. There was a solemn beauty in the symmetry, a quiet testament to those who had served.

The ceremony was simple and dignified. Two servicemen performed the ritual of folding the American flag, carefully opening it for a brief moment before refolding it with precision. A lone trumpet played, and we each placed a red rose atop the two boxes containing my grandfather and grandmother’s ashes. It was a quiet and sacred goodbye, one that I could feel was not just for him but for the role he had played in my life.

But for me, the real transformation happened later—at the reception, when I was asked to stand and speak.

The Speech: A Moment of Transformation

In the car ride to the reception, my mother turned to me and asked, “Would you say a few words about Grandpa?”

I wasn’t prepared. I hadn’t known I’d be asked to speak, and I didn’t have a speech written. But I accepted the request without hesitation. As the eldest grandchild, I felt it was my duty to honor my grandfather’s memory. I pulled out my phone and jotted down a few rough ideas, though the words didn’t really take shape until just minutes before I stood up.

When my uncle introduced me, I walked up, took a deep breath, and began.

I started by expressing my gratitude for my grandfather’s presence in my life and shared how, having just turned 35, I was lucky to have had him around for nearly that long.

Then, I told a story—one that tied me even more closely to him.

Since losing my home and possessions in the Los Angeles fires, I had been short on formal clothes for the event. My dad and I scrambled to piece together an outfit: a button-down shirt purchased last-minute, shoes from my dad’s closet, an old blazer from my childhood room. But when it came to pants, nothing fit—until we found a pair of dark green pleated dress pants that had belonged to my grandfather.

I told the room that wearing his pants felt like a fitting tribute, a small way to honor him. Then, for a little fun, I took a playful strut down the stage to show them off. I joked about how handsome they made me look and how I owed my good genes not to myself, but to my grandfather. I reminisced about his charm and good looks, even sharing a story about how, cane in hand, he once got hit on at a bar in Florida.

Laughter filled the room. The speech landed.

More than anything, I felt my grandfather’s presence in that moment. I could imagine him, watching from wherever he now resides, laughing alongside us.

Lessons in Presence and Letting Go

As I reflected on how I managed to pull together a speech on the spot, I realized that many of the mindfulness tools I’ve developed over the years had prepared me for that moment:

1. Acknowledging and Accepting Nerves

   • I felt nervous, of course. But instead of fighting it, I used mindfulness to acknowledge it with acceptance. I reminded myself: It’s okay to feel this. I’ll just do my best and let the words come as they will.

2. Letting Go of the Need for Control

   • Years ago, when I first started public speaking at Toastmasters, I tried to memorize every word, afraid of forgetting something important. But experience has taught me that real speaking isn’t about perfect recall—it’s about trust. Trust that the right words will come when needed. Trust that what’s essential will find its way out.

3. Speaking from Presence, Not Just Memory

   • Instead of focusing on what I had planned to say, I focused on being there, in the moment. Before I even spoke, I took a breath, looked around, and connected with the people in the room. I allowed myself to settle into my physical presence rather than retreat into my mind.

4. How You Say It Matters More Than What You Say

   • A lesson I learned long ago from Toastmasters: It’s not just what you say, but how you say it. It’s about movement, timing, and expression. I used the stage, took pauses, and made sure each punchline had space to land. And just as in meditation, I leaned into the silence between the words—allowing it to shape the moment, rather than rushing to fill it.

Carrying the Legacy Forward

As I return to Los Angeles, I feel changed. Not in a grand, dramatic way, but in a quiet, steady way—like something has shifted inside, like something has been passed down.

I feel like I am returning with my grandfather’s blessing, stepping into a new role within my family’s lineage. It’s a moment of transition, of responsibility, of quiet evolution.

And just like the neat rows of headstones at the cemetery, like the way my grandfather’s flag was folded with care, I sense that things are aligning in a new way.

I will carry his memory forward—not just in the stories I tell, but in the way I live, in the way I show up, in the way I keep growing.

And maybe, every now and then, I’ll even wear his pants.