About 10 years ago, I had a conversation with an onboarding client that I’ve never forgotten. When I first take someone onto my roster, I always begin by having them share their story with me. This particular gentleman said something that struck a nerve…
“My family’s last name has a certain pedigree in our hometown. My grandfather was a man of influence here, and even though he is gone, his name still carries considerable weight.”
At that moment, a thought flashed into my mind: “My grandparents have no pedigree. Nothing they did was ever of any real consequence.”
Years later, I finally understood what a fool I was.
The picture above is of my grandmother, Elsie Wortham. She died in 2012 at the age of 96. I’d love to tell you I had an amazing relationship with her. That I valued and respected her the way a good grandson should. But I didn’t. Not that I was rude or offensive, but I know, sitting here today writing this, I didn’t truly acknowledge how amazing she was. I was too immature and self absorbed to do so.
I don’t know my grandmother’s whole story, but the one character in it that makes me appreciate the pedigree I come from was my Uncle Larry. My Uncle Larry was born in Central Arkansas in the 40s. During his birth, his head was lodged in the birth canal, causing the doctor to use forceps. The trauma to his brain left him with cerebral palsy, wheelchair-ridden, never able to walk or talk normally for his entire life. His symptoms were severe.
And yet, Larry lived to be 70 years old which is a miracle for someone born with his level of disability even today.
Larry was born long before wheelchair ramps were common, before modern accessibility laws, before the medical technology and support systems families have available today. There were no home health apps, specialized vans, online support groups, or Amazon boxes arriving at the door with whatever piece of equipment might make tomorrow a little easier.
For Larry, there was my grandmother.
She cared for a son for seven decades who could never get himself a glass of water. She lifted him. Fed him. Bathed him. Dressed him. Worried about him when he was sick. Figured out problems for which there was no instruction manual. And then she woke up the next morning and did it again. All of that even after my grandfather decided to split.
For seventy years.
Turns out I was measuring pedigree with the wrong scoreboard.
There are no buildings with Elsie Wortham’s name on them. No company. No fortune. No external influence. No weight when someone mentions her name.
But how she devoted her life to caring for my uncle with no complaining, no resentment, no self-pity, only resolute faith was incredible.
The older I get, the less impressed I am with the loud, “look at me” kind of love. The grand gestures. The public declarations. The love that makes sure someone is watching.
I find myself far more moved by the quiet kind. The kind that wakes up and does its duty every day. No applause. No recognition. No one kept score.
Just the quiet strength of someone who decided, “This is mine to carry,” and carried it without question. That was my Grandma Elsie.
Turns out, I come from one hell of a pedigree.
Jordan
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