Where's Granddaddy? | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: Where's Granddaddy? | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jack Taylor
11/18/25
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The whispered question from my eight-year-old daughter washed over me like an unexpected king tide. She examined her black dress in the mirror as we prepared for my brother Mark’s funeral. He had been her favorite uncle.

Her voice shook with that soft-as-cotton quiver you get when you’re trying to look brave, but the world feels too big. “Mommy… when people die… do they really turn to dust?”

“What made you ask that today?” I asked.

“A girl at school told me that her pastor said that old people turn into dust when they die.”

I gently touched her cheek and looked into her eyes. “Sweetheart, can I tell you a story about something that happened to me when I was your age?”

She nodded, trusting me with what would come next.

“It was the week after your great-granddaddy’s funeral,” I said. “My brother, Daniel, was eleven, and he always acted like he knew everything about everything. That day, my mother gave me the job of dusting our basement.”

“I hate dusting,” my girl said.

I squeezed her into a hug. “Our basement seemed humongous back then. It smelled like hockey gear, cardboard boxes, and musty concrete. There were paint cans, puzzle boxes, jars of screws, a whole lot of stuff. When your brother came downstairs, I was sitting on the bottom stair, hugging the duster.”

“What happened?”

“My brother threw a foam basketball at me and said, ‘What’s wrong with you now?’”

“I don’t want to dust,” I said.

He smiled the way he still does. “You don’t get to pick your chores,” he said.

“I’m scared,” I said. “I’m scared I might chase Granddaddy away.”
He scowled. “Chase Granddaddy? Where did you get that idea? He’s dead.”

“The preacher at Granddaddy’s funeral said that Granddaddy came from dust and he’d go right back to dust. So… what if he’s already down here? What if dusting wipes him away?”

“My brother laughed at me, teasing me. He asked me if I thought Granddaddy’s nose was on the paint can or his elbow on top of a puzzle box?”

“That’s mean,” my daughter said.

“I pouted and told him that it wasn’t funny. He saw I was serious, so he sat by me. ‘I didn’t know you were really scared,’ he said. ‘What the preacher meant is that Granddaddy didn’t turn into the dust in our basement. He was trying to say that God made Adam from the dust of the ground, from the earth, and that when we die, our bodies go back into the earth again.’”

“Is that really true?” my daughter asked.

I nodded. “It was a huge relief to know that the little dust motes floating around in front of the window weren’t granddaddy. It would have been scary even to breathe. Daniel told me that the dust the preacher talked about was only the outside, the body part, and not the real granddaddy inside.”

“So, was the granddaddy who hugged me, not my real granddaddy?”

“Yes, the real granddaddy hugged you, but there was an even more real granddaddy inside.”

“Was he hugging me, too? Did that granddaddy get put into the ground?”

I shook my head. “I wondered that too. That’s when my brother told me about how Granddaddy was with Jesus, just like Uncle Mark is. When Jesus comes back, he’s going to give us new bodies that will never turn to dust again. He assured me that I could dust the whole basement and not bother granddaddy.”

“Did you dust the whole basement?” my daughter asked.

“Yes, and my brother even helped me. Instead of imagining granddaddy disappearing, I thought of him dancing in heaven with Jesus.”

My daughter leaned into me and sighed. “So, dust isn’t people?”

“No,” I whispered. “Dust isn’t real people. When a preacher talks about dust, he’s talking about the temporary part of us. The part God promises to make new someday.”

Like a girl, she stands and smooths a part of her dress. “So, Uncle Mark… he’s with Jesus too?”

I wrapped her in another hug. “Yes, sweetheart. He is. And the realest part that laughed with you, loved you, prayed for you, and hugged you. That didn’t turn to dust. That part is alive more than ever.”

She smiles. So, I don’t need to be scared of dust?”

“No. It’s just the good old earth God uses to make other good stuff.”
We hold hands and remember the good times we had with Uncle Mark.

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