My Grandpa

I hate good-byes. Anyone who knows me well knows this. They are my Achilles' heel. I have a passion for adventure, but I hate leaving people. I often have this nagging in the back of my mind that says it could be the last time I'll see them. I know that sounds morbid, but there are so many unpredictable things that can happen in a given moment. Brett used to always tell me that I was lucky because I had such great people to miss. Now, I remind myself of that whenever I have to say good-bye or am missing people. It's true - I am lucky. But having such great people to miss also makes for having a lot to lose.

Yesterday, my Grandpa Bruce passed away suddenly. No warning, no time for good-bye. I am sad for a life gone too soon. I am sad for missed opportunities: of getting to know him better, of showing him how much I loved him instead of just telling him, of playing golf, of a quick phone call. I am sad that my kids will never know him, and will have to hear of him only through the intangibles and the anecdotes, which aren't good enough. Will never be good enough.

How do you possibly describe a person in a way that does him justice? In a way that my kids might someday understand? I don't think I can.

Let's start with the intangibles; the pieces that I will always remember but will never be able to describe fully or mimic. 

His laugh when he'd  say "oh, that's a good one!" and his upper body would shake a little. 

The way he loved to play practical jokes. When you'd start to catch onto him, he would get a blank look on his face like he had no idea who had done it, and then after a few seconds, would break into a smile. 

The way he'd fall asleep every time we tried to watch "Fievel Goes West" (pretty sure he never made it to the end of that one…) His one-line acting talent in the Ford dealership commercial - "What did he just say?!"

His hand-writing, in all capital letters, with the letters that were supposed to be capitalized always standing just a little taller. The way he'd sign cards from "GRAMPA" with an "XXOO".

The way his voice sounded. The way his hands would sometimes shake because of the arthritis. The way he walked. 

The way he'd excitedly say "Hi Crash" (more like Ker-ash) when he answered the phone. 

The way there was always pop in the garage.  The way he loved Mexican food and knew everyone at the Mason City La Hacienda by name. The way he'd stand in the driveway whenever we were leaving his and Marlene's house, waving until we were out of sight.

After I moved to Colorado, the way that he always made an effort to see me when I was home, even if it was for a short amount of time and in the midst of a jam-packed schedule.

The way that he called us darlin', and now I catch my dad often doing the same. 

These details that I can see and I can hear and I can remember so vividly, but I can't describe. For once, words are failing.

Grandpa Bruce took me through my first car wash. After going on a movie date, he thought we'd run the car through the wash quick on the way home. Not knowing I'd never been in one before, he felt terrible when I got scared and started crying (the sunroof didn't help). When we got home, Marlene asked me about my day. In a very matter-of-fact voice, I began listing the order of events: "We ate lunch, we went to the movie, we went to the car wash and I cried...."  Whenever this story is brought up, Grandpa still apologizes.

My grandpa was my golfing buddy. I could always count on him to come to my high school meets, and give me a giant hug at the end, telling me how proud he was and how well I played - even when I felt frustrated or discouraged by my performance. 

I loved early mornings traveling to Rice Lake with him in the van, stopping to get a gas station coffee and a breakfast sandwich. Meeting all of his golfing buddies, and taking off in his cart.

This morning on the radio, something was said that resonated with me: "This world brings tribulations. If you expect anything more from this world, then you do not know this world."

I have been struggling a lot lately. I have seriously wondered if "quitting adulthood" was an option. Perhaps I have been expecting too much of the world. Perhaps the beauty that is here isn't of the world, and is the glimpse of our Savior that we get to still enjoy sometimes. Grandpa is lucky. He doesn't have to deal with the tribulations of this world anymore. He gets to rejoice in a perfect heaven with his Father. And for that, I am glad. 

Bonus point if you can find Molly in this picture...

But until I get to join you, Grampa, you are loved and you are remembered and you are missed.