A Good-natured Echo: Gratitude for Grandad

A moment of laughter with my Grandad, during our last days together.

Thank you, Russ, Dad, Grandad: for using your hands with care, your words with intention, your days with noble discretion. Thank you for the substance of your faith and clever communication. Thank you for writing down so many stories, and for maintaining positive relationships with your family. Though I am only one of your grandchildren, one person in the landscape of your life, I offer this collective tribute in the best way I know how, a pattern you set through example: carefully-considered written words.

Thank you for the gardens you cultivated, the plants you nurtured, the people you fed and sustained, all the neighbors with whom you shared generously. Thank you for your laugh, full and deep and strong. Thank you for showing us how to crack macadamia nuts with a bench-top vice in your basement workshop, surrounded by all the books and albums you collected from op shops and garage sales. Thank you for your humility, for how you shared with my Nana the space she deserves to lead and contribute all her musicality and skill. How you evolved through your career in outdoor adventuring, agriculture, criminal justice and social services. How you committed yourself to raising your children and providing a warm, colorful space for your grandchildren to visit and explore.

Thank you for the earthy, honest, well-attended pathways you've left. 

As you slowed down and receded into yourself in recent years, we longed to sit and be with you, to linger by your side as your energy faded, though some of us had migrated across the world and could join you only in our imagination. During this liminal time, we were caught in melancholy rapture, meditating on how our lives intertwined with yours, stirred and enriched like a mountain stream, rushing downhill to the blue-green ocean wreath around Coromandel peninsula.

The shed and the avocado tree in Grandad’s yard, which continues to bear fruit.

Our shared life has been an exchange. When we feel a wind of interest, a creative image unleashed, an extra dose of energy to try again, it is a friendly, good-natured echo of you.

We will cherish the wise and humorous phrases you spoke in passing moments; some are a hazy presence we can still feel, though the details have been lost like a silhouette at dusk, while others have been memorized after years of repetition. Lucky are we, also, to have your words on a page, chemicals etched in paper containing the bright imprint of your thoughts and memories; tools wielded by your hands; a landscape bed shaped by your skillful shovel work. You left behind an orange tree heavy-laden with fragrant fruit every spring, an avocado tree stretching into the sky, a passionfruit vine tangled and strong, a hibiscus plant as thick as a curtain.

You leave behind us. You leave behind all our dreams and aspirations and hands down in the soil, our breaths and bodies continuing this work you started. You leave behind storytellers and keen observers, belly laughers and avid readers, do-it-right-the-first-timers. You leave behind those who have been taught well, who aren't afraid to learn and adapt.

The things you left undone, the pain and short-comings you inflicted, with remorse, is carried on in our bones. The things you did with selfish ambition are wounds we carry, warmed by the sun, washed by the rain. The impact of your voice, strong and forceful, was occasionally harsh, unwilling to wait for a response. There were times we needed our own space, relief from your high expectations. We know with the same gravelly voice you offer a heartfelt apology. We feel the warmth of your grin in a morning breeze and remember there is always a fresh start.

Your love and reverence for Christ was authentic and influential. You embodied an eagerness to soak in his message, to translate it into approachable language, to live with an open-hearted thirst for wisdom and to apply its riches. This faith is a tree under which we find shade.

"Yes, gooood, yes,” you say, with a hearty nod, the affirmation spoken slowly, enunciated. We say this back, our yes and amen, even as yours is now beyond range of our hearing. Still it echoes in the beyond, where Christ holds everything together, where he offers us rest. 

We will keep learning from you: Russ, Dad, Grandad. We commit ourselves to honing our skills and using them well, like your father did from his Māori neighbors. Alec’s wood panel carving, now hanging on your son’s wall, is deep red, swirling, carefully-etched, bearing a resounding charge to be brave: Ka Whawhai Tonu Mātou Ake Ake Kia kaha. 

“Be strong and courageous,” like the Lord said to Joshua after he lost his beloved mentor. Yes, following your example, we will be strong. We will beat our swords into ploughshares and fight, not with violence but with generous resourcefulness and gracious industry. We will love, full-hearted, sharing good news with all creation. We will miss you dearly—but we are deeply grateful for the trail you blazed. We will carry on with the same spirit, in our own way, knowing the dawn will be bright when we see you again. 

My first book, What the Bird Sees in Flight, was dedicated to my Grandad, John Russell Goodall (1936-2025).