He Still Sends Emails From Heaven

It keeps happening.

The green light on the Gmail account tied to my grandfather’s email keeps coming on. It happened again this afternoon. It’s been happening for years.

And as usual, I sent a message.

And as usual, nothing came back.

That’s because my grandfather passed away more than a decade ago.

Let me catch you up.

More than 10 years ago, my grandfather died suddenly. He fell, hit his head, and by the time he got to the hospital, there wasn’t much they could do. One moment he was here, then he wasn’t.

I’ve written a few stories for the Medina Weekly already about this grandfather. He was the one who used to pick me up from Medina and tell me stories during the drive back to his home on Chagrin Boulevard. He’s the same grandfather who would stop at Taco Bell after my youth city league soccer games and buy me a taco for every goal I scored.

A few months before he died, he became obsessed with technology.

Not because he needed to. Because he wanted to stay connected to the world.

So he bought a tablet, created a Gmail account, tried learning Facebook, and attempted to understand URLs, websites and spam folders. Every other day my phone would ring.

“Aaron … what the heck is this thing?”

I’d laugh.

Then I’d drive over to help him because he’d insist I explain it in person.

At the time, I thought I was teaching him technology. Looking back, I think he was teaching me something else.

Those afternoons weren’t really about passwords or setting up accounts. They became this strange little bridge between two people living in completely different seasons of life. And somehow, this frustrating technology gave us a reason to keep showing up for each other.

Because despite all the frustration, he leaned into it. He wanted to adapt. He wanted to stay connected.

Then he passed away.

And I thought that was the end of it.

Until a few months later, when I was sitting at my computer sending work emails, I looked down at the corner of the screen.

His name.

His Gmail account.

And a green light.

Active.

The same account we created together.

At first, I didn’t know what to think. But immediately I started remembering everything — the phone calls, the afternoons, the frustration, the laughter.

And I did something that felt strangely natural.

I emailed him.

Maybe that sounds weird.

But for some reason it felt easier than praying. Or maybe it was prayer.

Typing an email to my grandfather felt tangible. There was a subject line. A timestamp. A sent folder. Proof that the effort to communicate had actually happened.

Ever since then, every now and then, when I see his account is active, I send another one.

I tell him I miss him.

I tell him I think about him all the time.

Now look, maybe it’s a glitch. Maybe it’s a data leak or an abandoned account floating somewhere around the internet.

But there’s still a big part of me that hopes maybe somewhere out there … he finally remembered the password.