Dear Granddad and Grandma,

I don’t even know if that’s what I should call you as I’ve never had pet names for you, but it’s what I’ll work with for this letter.

It may seem strange that I would be writing this to you. Firstly it might seem strange that it’s public, but there is this big bit of me that feels like if it’s not public then it’ll just remain as the thoughts spinning around in my head that I wish I could say to you but never can (if there is any fallout for doing this publicly, I’ll take it). I know that doesn’t make sense but often some of our deepest emotional needs aren’t rational. Secondly, it might seem strange because you’ve passed away. Thirdly, it might seem strange because if you were to read this, it would be coming from a complete stranger due to the fact that you never knew I even existed and…

{Sorry, I had to pause for a moment and cry… yes, I’m a 37 year old man crying as I write this… I feel like a little boy right now}

… so we never had a chance to get to know each other. There are a few things about my life that hurt, but nothing hurts more than that, especially since I found out the truth.

You see, you didn’t know I existed because my father, your son, whom I only met in my teens, disappeared for a while around the time he had a relationship with my mother and they had me. To keep it all hush hush he concocted a story for my mother about how you were wealthy and didn’t want to know her or me (their new baby) because you thought she was in it for the money. Yes, he made up a story that you were loaded. That’s the story I grew up believing and as you can imagine, because of it I didn’t think too highly of you.

He cut and run not long after I was born, leaving my mother with a young baby. He disappeared and I didn’t meet him until I was a teenager. Even then, he was still pretty much telling the same story.

Granddad, you had already passed away then. Grandma, at that time you were on your deathbed… this bit really hurts… I’m struggling to write it… gotta wipe away the tears… but I chose not to visit you because I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me. I didn’t even take any notice of when your funeral was. Because of what I believed at the time, I was fine with that.

I’m so, so sorry.

I chose not to continue a relationship with my father (your son) because of the unhealthy issues in his life that I didn’t want my then future family to deal with. I now have that family and believe I made the right decision. He has since passed away. He was a broken individual and mostly I just feel sad for him now. Thankfully on my last ever visit with him many years ago now, another person in his life passed me the contact details for your other son, my uncle, and encouraged me to ignore the lies my father had told about him, and to get in touch with him.

I did, and in so doing I met a wonderful man, my uncle, and his amazing family. I feel so much richer for knowing them.

They set the record straight and told me that you were wonderful people. They told me you had no idea I existed and that if you did, you would have welcomed me as your grandson. Most importantly, they and the half sister I recently met who also knew you when she was younger, said you would have been proud of me and who I have become.

I’ve got to be honest, sometimes I think the lie my father told might have been easier to live with, but now I have to live with the fact that his poor decisions not only denied us of a father/son relationship together, but the other consequence of his decisions was that you and I were denied a relationship together. I missed out on you, and you missed out on me because of someone else’s decisions. I struggle with that.

They said (I hope it’s true) that you would be proud.

Granddad, I have your name – Francis Anderson Ritchie. It’s a complicated story about other relationships, and teasing, but I finally use that full name with pride – though I still mostly introduce myself as Frank and get called that as well… I hear ‘Frank’ was common for you too. Francis Anderson Ritchie means ‘free, courageous, powerful ruler.’ It sounds big, but I try to embody it and in so doing, honour your name.

Grandma, I married a beautiful woman. She’s an amazing lady. I wish you could have met her. She embodies strengths in every area where I’m weak. She’s way more than I could have ever hoped for and she comes from a phenomenal family.

I also have an amazing daughter. She’s 8. We named her after the call in the Psalms to pause and reflect; Selah. Her full name means ‘pause and reflect on the grace of our powerful ruler.’ Her nature reflects that somewhat. She’s generous, thoughtful and caring. Like any parents, we’re trying to do our bit to shape her into a good human being.

I don’t know if it would mean much to both of you but I’m an ordained minister in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand. I went Wesleyan (yeah, sorry, not very Scottish) because I felt an affinity with its solid approach to the Gospel, mixed with its history, tradition and very strong heritage of working for justice – making a real difference in the world.

That sense of working out justice and making the world a little better currently has me working at TEAR Fund, with a lot of my focus right now being on the issue of human trafficking and slavery.

My work with TEAR Fund has taken me to some amazing places in the world – the hills of Kenya where I’ve overlooked the rift valley and played with children in one of the biggest slums in the world. I’ve sat and chatted with amazing women in the slums of India, and visited the Taj Mahal and Agra Fort. I’ve walked the streets of Bethlehem and Jerusalem (with some of that being in the midst of conflict) and sat in silence as the priests have done the liturgy of hours in the Church of the Nativity, and I’ve kissed the stone that tradition holds Jesus’ cross to have been placed in when he was crucified. I’ve preached the Sermon on the Mount on Mount Beatitudes, and I’ve also had the chance to be the celebrant at a friends wedding in a wonderful little town in Bolivia. I’ve seen some amazing things.

My faith isn’t something I try to hide, in fact, I spend a lot of time wearing a clerical collar so every man and his dog can take out their positive or negative projections about the Church/Christianity/God on me if they so desire.

I’m naturally a strong introvert. Maybe you can tell since I chose to conduct my own therapy with you by writing a letter, but I constantly push myself to engage publicly because that’s where and how I believe I can make the biggest difference. I’m constantly outside of my comfort zone. Often I want to shrink back from it.

I’ve got to admit, if anyone asked who I’d most like to impress in life aside from God, it’s you two. I wish you could see who I am and I wish we could sit and chat, but it wasn’t to be.

I’m part of your legacy. I just wish you had got a glimpse of this part of what you left behind. You did good. You had an amazing family and your grand-kids are something to be proud of.

I’ve got a photo of you that I hope I’ll have with me till I die. It’s all I’ve got. It quietly lives in my Bible.

I’m afraid I’ve got no memories of you.

For the actions of my father, I’m sorry.

These tears I’m shedding are the wish that I could have at least said hello and goodbye to you… but it’s never going to happen in this life. I know some people might think it’s naive, but my hope is that you’re safe and happy somewhere and that maybe one day we might get to meet somehow. I’ve got to be honest though, that hope doesn’t make it all ok… it still hurts.

So this letter is it – this letter is my hello and goodbye to you, the grandparents I love dearly – the grandparents I’m crying for as I type; the grandparents I missed out on because of someone else’s foolishness.

Granddad and Grandma, I promise you I will continue to do my best to honour your names, your legacy and who you were. I will continue to strive to be a grandson you could be proud of.

This is no literary masterpiece. I wish I could say something beautiful and poetic to you, but the best I can do is sob quietly while my wife and daughter sleep upstairs, wipe my eyes and sign off. I pause, reflect, and breathe. Life goes on.

I love you. Goodbye for now.