I actually didn’t remember when my uncle was diagnosed with cancer. I knew it had been over a year, but had it been two, three? I remembered that he posted on Facebook fairly soon after his diagnosis, so in writing a post in his memory, I logged on to find it.
At the top of his timeline, I saw posts from friends and coworkers saying goodbye on the day that he passed. I had already seen that my mom, aunt, and uncle had posted their tributes, their elegies memorials in this digital archive, but I hadn’t seen the posts that were directly on his timeline yet. Even though I couldn’t bring myself to read their heartfelt paragraphs, I warmed knowing they were there. I thought about how it’s a bit of a strange practice, writing something to someone who would never read it—and yet I felt compelled to write something myself.
Scrolling down, I saw that his most recent posts were nearly all about his family or his cancer. A friend wrote a prayer for healing, his wife posted pictures of breakfast with his two daughters, and he wrote an update on his pain. When I saw him a few months prior, these did seem to dominate his life.
This military man was driven by a profound love of his family. He spoke with such pride about how strong his athlete eldest was, how effortlessly his youngest got straight As. He said that my cousins got their smarts exclusively from my aunt, despite the fact that he worked in army intelligence. Even as his life became dominated by pain, he would stop the world for his girls.
Further down his timeline, his posts had more variety. He reposted articles about current events. He was also very focused on digital security, so he’d post how-tos for ensuring that your phone wasn’t spying on you. He was the one that got our entire family to switch to the Signal messaging app because it’s supposed to be safer. We’re still using it now.
He had a stint a couple years ago where he would post pictures of birds that were flying by his home security system. For some reason, this is what made me tear up the most—staring at a blurry picture of a mostly out-of-frame sparrow, captioned simply with “Good morning.” It had been so long since I’d seen him post or talk with this kind of levity that it felt surreal.
I never actually found the original post because Facebook stopped loading once I got two and a half years back. I had to get myself to start writing anyway.
I’ve hesitated to write about my uncle because I never wanted to feel like I was mining his pain for content, nor did I want to center myself in his narrative. I’m writing this because I felt like talking about anything else would be disingenuous, but in doing so, I’m starting to understand a couple reasons why so many people might write their Facebook condolences.
Grief is pervasive, rolling through like a midnight fog, yet I’m unable to do anything to find change or comfort. But writing prayers, paying respects—it’s something you can do. It’s somewhere you can put this heaviness. But beyond that, it’s a gesture of care to a person you loved, a noble compulsion even if they aren’t there to receive it. Writing about him means that he mattered to me, and in my grief, I want to declare it to anyone listening.
His selflessness was an inspiration; his care for others an aspiration. I will spend my whole life trying to live up to his generosity and kindness, and the world is a little darker without him in it. But even if he is not with us, he no longer knows pain. I hope he has finally found peace, and I can’t wait to see him on the other side.
Tiffany Kajiwara graduated from Calvin in 2022 with majors in literature and writing. Now, she continues to live in Grand Rapids and works at Baker Academic Publishing as a marketing assistant. In her free time, she enjoys crocheting, thrifting, and psychoanalyzing cartoon characters.
