Why Actions Speak Louder Than Words
We can think we’re humble, kind, or care about others, but what does it really take to emulate character in a crazy world?
I remember looking down at my boots as they sunk into the snow covered in mud. My feet were frozen and becoming numb as I trudged along a path in unfamiliar conditions — snow… in Texas. As exciting as the snow was, I couldn’t wait to be indoors once more to take off my boots and let my feet thaw. I muscled a hunting rifle on my shoulder and looked back at the muddy footprints behind us. They faded in the distance and I realized we wouldn’t be returning to the car anytime soon. “It isn’t much further!” my grandpa exclaimed, as we continued to hike.
My grandpa — or as we call him, “pawpaw” — had been waiting for this day a long time. Tradition in a lot of Texas families dictates that once you're old enough, you go deer hunting, thus becoming a rite of passage into manhood. It was pawpaw who would be the one to lead me into this time-honored tradition that my family also took part in.
I wasn’t your typical Texas boy though and always differed a little from my family. I didn't listen to country music, and although I enjoyed it, I didn’t go hunting or fishing as much as the rest of the family did. Trudging through that snow, however, I could sense my pawpaw’s excitement given that I’d chosen to go hunting with him. I figured if I could snag a deer that would make him proud.
As we continued to hike for what seemed like an eternity, I finally saw a wooden box elevated off the ground in the tree-line. “That’s it? That’s your favorite spot?” I asked. After he affirmed that the wooden box is where we would spend the next few hours, we made our way inside. I climbed in with my rifle only to fight through spider webs that lined the hatch in the floor. Pawpaw dusted me off and ensured I hadn’t been eaten alive by spiders before boosting me into the hunting stand.
The deer blind was old and ragged, but still supported our weight as we sat on two chairs. I got comfortable sitting and rested my feet while staring out on the white pasture. The hard part about hunting is learning to rest in the utter stillness. You’re not supposed to move a muscle while you scan the landscape for any sign of movement. After some time, I started to complain as frost crept into my lungs and became painful as I breathed out through my nostrils — careful not to spook the deer. I was certain I wouldn’t be able to even pull the trigger as my hands were becoming numb.
After complaining a little more, the hunting trip changed into what we could do to warm me up. My pawpaw set his rifle aside and grabbed a coffee can. He put a roll of toilet paper inside — soaked it with lighter fluid — then lit the paper. The fire created a heat wave that thawed my fingers while I opened and closed my fist to regain feeling. I wanted to return to hunting more than anything because I wanted to make my pawpaw proud, but that would not be the case. “We made too much noise,” he said quietly, “We won’t see anything now.”
Once we thawed out in the deer stand that was now an oven, we made the long haul back to the car empty-handed. I was disappointed. Here my grandfather had brought me on a rite of passage and I hadn’t even brought back a deer to show off. I couldn’t call myself a man yet. Yet while I sulked, my pawpaw didn’t seem bothered by what I considered a failure. Instead, he had me sit in the front seat for the three-hour ride home, sharing and talking more than I’d ever heard him before. Ultimately, he was just happy he got to spend time with his grandson.
Throughout my grandfather’s life, there would be teaching points like the deer outing where the point was not necessarily the experience, but what I learned. I always looked up to him because of his successful career, but the more I was around him, I realized his job and the money he accumulated wasn’t what defined him or his character.
Growing up, I noticed the little things that made him shine. During the holidays, he worked hard to ensure everything was going well so my large family could enjoy dinner and opening gifts. He was always the last to open his gifts.
When our family went out for dinner, he insisted on paying. My family is quite large and because of the amount of people, most waiters or waitresses had a hard time keeping up. Meals would come out late or at different times, they’d be the wrong order, or they’d completely forgot an order. I found myself embarrassed by other tirades at other tables where patrons chewed out their servers, but my grandfather was different despite the errors. Even when they butchered our order, he gave our servers a larger tip than normal, exclaiming they “needed it”.
When my grandparents moved to a new home, they put in a pool for family get-togethers. The contractors who were building the pool soon found my grandfather sweating alongside them. Pawpaw would lend a hand and also man a grill to feed them even though he was the one paying for their labor.
Reflecting on these lessons, I saw that my first hunting trip wasn’t about a moment to make him proud. The experience wasn’t even about his expectations. He wanted to enjoy time together, and even though things went awry, he never let expectations be what guided our time together. I was the one who had done that. Instead, his life was less about him, but always about others.
The lessons he taught me I still take to heart:
- Carry someone else’s burden to help lighten the weight.
- Treat others as an equal, if not greater than yourself, despite their failures.
- When given the chance, work alongside those that need the help.
- Be a service to others, especially when that means humbling yourself.
My grandfather never once told me to take care of others before myself. He showed me how to.
Last July I spent a Thursday morning reading my bible while watching hummingbirds outside when my phone rang.
“Pawpaw passed away five minutes ago.”
I drove two hours to the hospital gripping my steering wheel while hoping and praying I’d get to see him. Maybe learn just a little more from him. But when I arrived the truth came like a hammer. He was gone.
In his death, I watched my family come together to emulate what he’d taught us — live for others. While fear, sadness, and grief gripped us because of his passing, the heart of a servant he’d shown each of us shone through during that difficult time. Even though he’s no longer with us, the legacy he left beats in the people he influenced and will continue to reach countless others.
A week after his passing, I grabbed a shovel and pitched dirt over his grave. He wanted to be buried at his ranch and we obliged. The day was hot and grief ached deep in my bones, but as I shoveled, I reflected on all he’d done and what his life taught me. As I continued to shovel dirt, I hoped that even this small gesture was some semblance of service he had shown for me.
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