my Grandpa.

It doesn't feel real, but it is. It doesn't make sense yet, and it may never.

My Grandpa no longer calls this world his home.

The man who witnessed me cry my eyes out and get madder than a hornet, and regularly reminded me that “God knows best.”

The man who always asked about our financial goals and told me how proud he was of me for figuring it out so much earlier than he did.

The man who loved the beach and was a pro at stretching a dollar as far as it could go (sound familiar?).

The man who played water guns with my kids (his treasured great-grandchildren) and only missed a birthday party or event we invited him to if he had no choice.

The man who didn’t pull away from or stop calling me when we disagreed on something, and who was who he was unapologetically.

The man who hated for anyone to see him weak and vulnerable, and who wore his pride like a cloak…

And yet, he publicly cried his eyes out when I walked across the stage at Clemson University to get my diploma. When I asked him about it later, he just said, “That little girl sitting on my lap in her Clemson cheerleader outfit grew up. I'm so very proud of you.”

He always made sure I knew he was proud of me.

And when my Papa (who he knew I adored) passed after a hard-fought battle with Parkinson’s disease and dementia just months ago, he showed up on my doorstep the very next morning with a homemade chocolate eclair pie, a hug, and a tender “I love you.” My tears were almost too much for him to bear.

Last Wednesday, I held his hand for the last time and later cried myself to sleep. I knew he wouldn’t show up with another eclair the next morning, but I still wanted him to. Still hoped he would somehow.

The day after that, I knew he wouldn’t call me to wish me a happy 36th birthday either.

I still waited for the phone to ring with “Grandpa 💚” on the screen anyway. He always called. Every year, he never forgot my birthday. He celebrated me because he loved me. Because he was proud that I was his.

How does one make peace when good memories and harsh realities are dancing around each other? He was just here with us, and then he was…

Gone from us.

We never saw it coming, and we’ll likely spend the rest of our lives revisiting old memories and listening to old voicemails that are now worth more than gold.

When I would talk to my Grandpa on the phone (which was typically several times a week) and listen to him share of how busy he and MaMa were, how thankful they were, how good God has been to them, how they were here for me (us) for whatever we need, I was increasingly content to just sit and hear his voice. I shared plenty, too, but I knew the listening was sacred. I’ve never been more grateful for how I sat with my ears open wide and my mouth turned upward.

I sincerely ache all over when I remember how I’ll never hear my Grandpa say, “You know what I mean?,” and “Well, we’re headed to the beach this week,” and “You still love me like you used to love me before you learned to love me like you love me now?” My heart and head haven’t caught up with each other yet, and I still find myself being surprised to remember that he’s no longer earthside. It is a strange feeling, a devastating reality for those who are still here. A wave of grief and sadness hit me every time his face comes to mind, I think of how I should call him, and then painfully remember that I can't.

His faith was made sight, and we rejoice for the hope we have because of that.

The ache remains, though, because the love was so great.

His voice was something I never tired of.

His presence was something I took for granted less and less as I grew older and wiser.

I have no regrets about how I loved him while I was able. It was an up-close, warm kind of love.

I only wish I’d had more time to do all the things we always did.

I only wish I’d had more time to love him here.

We'll miss you for as long as we're living, Grandpa.

And we'll love you even longer.

"Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy."

Psalm 126:5

READ MORE ABOUT MY WONDERFUL GRANDPA HERE.

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