My grandfather died yesterday.

I received the voicemail as I was walking out of the taping of Hope & Faith. My mother's voice was strange, distorted and bloated with grief. "Christine, your grandfather passed on today. Call me. We have to discuss if you want to go to Taiwan with me," she said in Chinese.

I called back immediately, tried both our home and mobile numbers, but no one answered. I left a message at home, but didn't know what to say. What is there to say, when your mother's father dies? How are you supposed to take away the hurt? Should you even try to take away the hurt?

For me, it stung. But I was with a friend, Steve, and I really didn't feel like talking about it. Luckily, Steve either sensed that or was trying to distract me, because we talked about everything but my grandfather on the ride back. I still haven't allowed myself to let go because it will be messy. And also because I am afraid there will be nothing there, no overwhelming sadness, no uncontrollable weeping.

The language barrier is an enormous, practically insurmountable, obstacle. I've heard this from other people, too, whose parents emigrated here before they were born as an American. Being American and living in the Midwest means that one's English will be good, but the ability to communicate with one's grandparents who still reside in a foreign country--not so good. There is nothing more difficult, embarassing, just plain frustrating than attempting a conversation, trying to be friends with family who can't understand your broken Chinglish.

My grandfather was always an energetic man, impatient, and constantly moving as though to sit still were a sin. Indeed, he embraced Christianity late in his life, and in his last conversation with my grandmother, he spoke of how he wasn't afraid because he knew where he was going.

All I can do is be glad that he was able to face death with inner peace, then grieve, grieve for the man my grandfather was, and for never knowing him well enough to understand my mother's pain.