Grandma died young—just 55. Grandpa never got over it. When he passed years later, we found an old birthday card from her. On the back were 21 pencil-written lines—one for each year she wouldn’t be there. Each year, he’d read one on his birthday and try to live by it.
Later, I found a drawer in his desk filled with 21 notebooks, each tied to those lines. The first read, “Learn to sit with pain instead of running from it.” He wrote about missing her, learning to live with the emptiness.
Every year had a new lesson:
“Call people before they need to call you.”
“Grow something, even if it’s just a tomato.”
“Write letters. Not for replies, but for connection.”
“Say the thing. Don’t wait.”
He lived by them quietly—gardening, reaching out, forgiving, helping others in secret. The last line said, “Find a young soul and pass it all on.” That was the year he started calling me every Sunday. I thought he was just lonely. Now I know—he was passing it forward.
After he died, we read the notebooks together—crying, laughing, realizing how much he’d taught us without saying a word.
Months later, I got a letter with no return address:
“He lived by her words. Now you live by his. Keep going.”
And I do. Every year, I choose one of Grandma’s 21 lines to live by.
This year’s is “Say the thing. Don’t wait.”
So here it is: If you love someone, tell them. If you’re holding back kindness, give it. Life isn’t promised—but moments are.
Here’s to the 21 lines.
And to living by them.
