JavaScript is disabled in your web browser or browser is too old to support JavaScript. Today almost all web pages contain JavaScript, a scripting programming language that runs on visitor's web browser. It makes web pages functional for specific purposes and if disabled for some reason, the content or the functionality of the web page can be limited or unavailable.
Vieraskieliset / In-english

Blog: Important people

Vieraskieliset / In-english
25.10.2022 7.00

Juttua muokattu:

4.10. 12:46
2022100412460320221025070000

Text: Tar­ja Kor­ri

Trans­la­ti­on: Sirk­ka-Lii­sa Lei­no­nen

Many of us have va­lu­ab­le hu­man re­la­ti­ons­hips out­si­de our im­me­di­a­te fa­mi­ly. I have such re­la­ti­ons­hips with se­ve­ral pe­op­le. When I was lit­t­le, my grand­fat­her was one of those im­por­tant per­sons, and I spent a lot of time with him. Eve­ry­bo­dy in our fa­mi­ly spoke res­pect­ful­ly and for­mal­ly to him, and I found it stran­ge when some vi­si­tors ad­d­res­sed him with his first name.

Grand­pa of­ten pla­yed prac­ti­cal jo­kes on me. On­ce, when I came home from school, I found him out­si­de crouc­hed un­der a tree. He told me he had found a tre­a­su­re, and there re­al­ly was a pile of coins on the ground. I was surp­ri­sed and knelt down to help him col­lect them. He on­ly told me af­ter­wards that he had ac­ci­den­tal­ly drop­ped his wal­let, and the coins had rol­led out.

My god­fat­her had li­ved in my home all his life. At the age of ten, I was shoc­ked to le­arn that he would move away in­to a home of his own. As a child I very much ap­p­re­ci­a­ted the at­ten­ti­on my god­fat­her gave to me. He on­ce chal­len­ged me to race to a brid­ge that was al­most a ki­lo­me­ter from my home. I thought it would be a run­ning race, but he went in a car and I na­tu­ral­ly came se­cond. Even now, when we meet, I am chee­red by his qu­es­ti­on, ”And how is my god­daugh­ter?” I was over fif­ty when I still got a birth­day pre­sent from him, and that was re­al­ly spe­ci­al to me.

Anot­her im­por­tant per­son was a lady who of­ten came to my home to help when my mot­her was ill. She so­me­ti­mes cle­a­ned the hou­se and so­me­ti­mes ba­ked Ka­re­li­an past­ries. She li­ked child­ren, and we were al­lo­wed to help her. She es­pe­ci­al­ly taught us to res­pect our el­ders. She had left her job and sta­yed at home to care for her mot­her. Fa­mi­ly ca­re­gi­vers were not paid anyt­hing at that time, and her fa­mi­ly bud­get was oc­ca­si­o­nal­ly tight. But she said the He­a­ven­ly Fat­her had amp­ly paid for her ef­forts du­ring her life. Her mot­her was in hos­pi­tal for on­ly two days be­fo­re her de­ath, and she had said, “I will still be gra­te­ful in my grave for yo­ur help and care.” Anot­her im­por­tant thing that she taught us was how to greet pe­op­le. She used to hold my hand un­til I had made eye con­tact, sha­ken her hand and spo­ken the gree­ting.

I have met many sig­ni­fi­cant pe­op­le du­ring my life, some of them on­ly brief­ly, some ot­hers for a lon­ger time, some on­ly on­ce, ot­hers re­pe­a­ted­ly. There have been such mee­tings du­ring hos­pi­tal stays, my own trai­ning and child­ren’s school as well as du­ring va­ca­ti­on trips. It is pos­sib­le for two pe­op­le unk­nown to each ot­her to feel a con­nec­ti­on at first sight. If they then dis­co­ver that they even have the same faith, there is so­met­hing holy in that mo­ment. They share a sec­ret that re­mains unk­nown to ot­her pe­op­le. Some such mee­tings have de­ve­lo­ped in­to more per­ma­nent re­la­ti­ons­hips.

All of our child­ren’s grand­pa­rents have died. Our yo­un­gest child­ren have on­ly seen one of their grand­pa­rents ali­ve. This short­co­ming has been cor­rec­ted, ho­we­ver. One of our sons wan­ted to in­vi­te to his con­fir­ma­ti­on re­cep­ti­on a fa­mi­ly friend who used to take care of our child­ren when they were small and was al­so her hus­band’s ca­re­gi­ver. Be­cau­se they were ol­der than us, I jo­king­ly as­ked if they could ser­ve as subs­ti­tu­te grand­pa­rents for our child­ren. Their res­pon­se was touc­hing, ”That would be an ho­nor to us.” Ever sin­ce that, they have al­wa­ys been in­vi­ted to our fa­mi­ly ce­leb­ra­ti­ons. And for the first Christ­mas af­ter this ag­ree­ment, we re­cei­ved a pac­ka­ge of can­dy that was si­mi­lar to that al­wa­ys gi­ven by my hus­band’s fat­her when he was still ali­ve. I gu­ess it was just a coin­ci­den­ce, but it war­med our he­arts ne­vert­he­less.

One day our daugh­ter and her friend came to ask if they could go and vi­sit grand­ma and grand­pa. I was sad to re­mind them that it would no lon­ger be pos­sib­le. But then my daugh­ter said she me­ant pre­ci­se­ly these ”subs­ti­tu­te” grand­pa­rents. The subs­ti­tu­te grand­ma was mo­ved to te­ars when she he­ard about this, and the girls were warm­ly wel­co­me.

The best thing about our subs­ti­tu­te grand­pa­rents is that we all have the same goal. We see them at ser­vi­ces, and when we meet, we of­ten talk about mat­ters of faith. And if, some eve­nings, I feel too ti­red to pray or just fall as­leep right away, I know that so­me­o­ne el­se is pra­ying for my lo­ved ones.