Roger Robert Randolph Sr.

My reading from my grandfather’s funeral.

Roger was my grandfather. Grandpa.

As I reflect on his life and its impact on me, one word comes to mind: conflicted.

I have years of awesome memories of Grandpa.

• Memories of summers by their pool.
• Memories of endless projects and tinkering with him in the backyard.
• Memories of him teaching me how to drive his lawnmower and steer a trailer in reverse.
• Memories of plants in his garden, gathering massive squash, cucumbers, and tomatoes.
• Memories of shooting pool upstairs with cousins at their house.
• Memories of Christmas-eve celebrations where the grandkids were lavished with gifts. Grandma shopped and Grandpa worked to provide.

For a while during college, we met for a meal every week. Some days he was more talkative than others. I enjoyed hearing stories of his travels and time spent at sea. I was fascinated how his tone and posture would change as he spoke with pride about fellow servicemen and his friends at the VFW. Of the dozens of stories, one, in particular, stands out.

Grandpa worked as a signalman in the Navy. Using morse code, he sent and received messages with other ships. He told me when signaling, you would make eye contact with the person you were communicating with across the water. Miles apart, they worked face-to-face. Over time, he developed friendships with signalmen on other boats. It was common for them to exchange personal messages between official correspondence. I laughed at the thought of these grown men swapping gossip in an unspoken language.

One day, their fleet was experiencing an active threat. He and his friend locked gazes while sending their transmissions. In the middle of a message, his friend’s ship was hit, and the guy disappeared from view. Grandpa said, “I was looking him in the eyes. One moment he was there, the next he was gone.” Grandpa kept repeating, “He was just gone. He was just gone.”

More impactful than hearing the story was watching Grandpa’s reaction as he spoke. Grandpa was recounting events from decades earlier, and the loss still shook him. Psychology refers to these events as trauma. This was the most vulnerable moment I ever experienced with Grandpa. I’ve wondered how many similar stories from his military experience and even his childhood he kept buried. How much grief was he keeping pent up inside? I never found out.

As I retell the positive moments, I remain conflicted. These positive memories accompany painful memories too.

• Memories of being dropped off at Grandma and Grandpa’s for a sleepover as a child. There were many disappointing times we would have to go back home without staying the night because Grandpa had too much to drink.
• I remember Grandpa saying unkind words to people he loved without noticing or acknowledging how much his words hurt.
• I still hear his voice yelling demands at his wife from across the house while seated in his recliner.
• I remember my heartache, sitting on the floor of Grandma and Grandpa’s dining room, the first time I helped keep the secret of Grandpa’s drinking from my younger brother.
• Worst of all, I have watched for decades while the pain Grandpa tried to drown away continued to spill onto each generation of his family.

I know others have worse memories, stretched over longer periods of time. I imagine they too are conflicted as they unpack Roger’s life and death. We may not have lost friends at sea, but our trauma is no less significant. If we sugarcoat our memories or ignore the weight of his impact in our lives, why should we expect a more favorable outcome for our lives?

A memorial service is not the place to deny our hurt and pain. It can and probably should, however, be the proper place to lay down our resentment, anger, and shame. If we carry Roger’s wrongs with us, it will be our family, our children, and our own lives that suffer… not him.

I stood by his bedside moments after he died. Looking around at the empty room, one phrase echoed in my mind, “Do better.”

Do better.

It was not a message for Roger, as he was already gone. It was a message for myself. I believe it’s also a message for my family and my loved ones.

Whether Roger left us with good memories, bad memories, or some combination of both, we all have choices about what we do next.

Will we do better?

I hope we will.