Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.—John 15:13 (NIV)

When I was in my twenties, I went to my father’s hometown in Puerto Rico. I had a great interest in my roots and wanted to feel connected to my grandfather, who died when my father was just a child. 

The stories my relatives from the island told were the same ones I already knew. He was a baker and built an outdoor stove made of heavy stones; he’d walk to town with bundles of goods to sell, but often came home with the bundles unsold. My father remembers him breaking down in tears after one of these trips. 

I came back home to New York City not knowing much more about him than I already had. 

Recently I had a renewed interest in researching my roots and found more than I could imagine. In one census, my grandfather’s occupation is listed as “vendor of sweets.” Seeing it in writing made it real, and now being a baker myself made the connection extra special. 

But the one thing I found that helped me know my grandfather the most was his certificate of death. We never knew how he died at such a young age, and the words written in beautiful Spanish script spoke volumes: “pernicious anemia, nutritional deficiency.” I could imagine my grandfather going without so his family could have more, sacrificing himself for their survival. 

I had never felt so close to my grandfather as when reading those four heartbreaking words. That sacrifice was a gift for his family. It was his gift for me.