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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the bargeron explorers // wizarding world of harry potter.

 A postcard from…

the Wizarding World of Harry Potter!

We spent MLK Jr. weekend in Florida, and THIS was our main event: Hogwarts & Diagon Alley! The theming was so good that we felt like we were really there. I knew we would be amazed, but it was even more incredible than any of us imagined. Just wow! Seriously, we were in awe.

Our Christmas gift to the kiddos (and ourselves) was a one-day parkhopper ticket to Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure, and our goal was simply to immerse ourselves in all things Harry Potter. And even with less than ideal weather, we did just that!

We rode all the HP-inspired rides, drank all the butterbeer, took in all the details of our favorite books and movies in real life, ate at the Leaky Cauldron, walked through Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley over and over again (with a quick walk through Knockturn Alley, too), enjoyed a live performance of the Tale of Three Brothers, did all the lingering we could, and got to take an unexpected ride on the Hogwarts Express. It was an unforgettable day!

The timing of this trip was blanketed with an unexpected loss just a week before: the passing of our beloved Papa.

It can feel hard to enjoy life when your heart aches and your eyes are puffy from years of tears. It can, also, feel wrong to smile and laugh and have fun when your heart feels heavy and downcast, like you’re somehow dishonoring your grief.

But perhaps days like this are the way to keep pressing on, to keep giving joy the final say.

Perhaps the best way to honor a memory is to keep making memories
 To live loved and loving, letting all that has built us inspire us to keep building.

We made the last-minute decision to leave a day earlier and drive instead of fly, adding in a pitstop at Vilano Beach, FL. Our night at the ocean was healing, even with a chill in the air. The ocean has always beckoned me to be awed by, not fearful of, the mystery. There is so much we cannot see beneath the water's surface that invites us to trust not in our eyes, and it's never-ending nature offers us humility as we consider how small we are.

The ocean heals.

Wave by wave, it heals.

Papa knew it long before I did.

“Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young.”
-Albus Dumbledore

Watch our travel video here!

my Papa.

  It happened. The reality that I have achingly tried to prepare for over the last few years is now mine.

I woke up this morning in a world that my Papa no longer calls home.

Yesterday, shortly after lunch, I witnessed him take his final breath before his home became heaven. And as he was welcomed with what I imagine sounded like the most beautiful song ever sung, all I heard was the sound of hearts breaking all around me. Mine included. It was liberating for him, and excruciating for us.

I have faith that he is healed and whole and free now.

I have hope that we will be one day, too.

And yet, no matter how much one tries to prepare for or reason with a loss this great, sometimes a heart still breaks all the same. I suppose the only way to avoid it is to keep love at a distance, but there has never been a moment when I wanted to keep my love for Papa at a distance.

So, I ache.

Not just me, but my Nana, my Daddy and step-mom, my siblings, my husband and kids, and my entire extended family. We are all aching together.

My Papa was truly one of a kind. In a world where people are increasingly not who you think they are or who they present themselves to be, Papa was. He was as kind and strong and wonderful as he appeared, maybe even more so. I think only my Nana knew the full extent of his genuine goodness, because his life was marked by so much humility, too.

I will miss so many things about him: the way his eyes lit up whenever he saw me (and anyone he loved), the way he was always willing to do whatever he could to help his family, the way he was just always there (even when he wasn’t), the way he cared, the way he preferred to stay behind the scenes, the way he worked so hard, the way he stood back and turned his light onto us so we could shine (further proof that he really was the foundation of so much), the way he loved.

Especially the way he loved.

One of my favorite memories of Papa was years ago when I went to one of his work parties. He was so happy I (we) came, and he spent most of the evening introducing me to his coworkers and friends. He was so giddy for everyone to meet his granddaughter, and nearly everyone recognized me from stories and pictures he shared. I can’t count the times I heard this that night: “Oh, THIS is Anna! We’ve heard so much about you.” He was proud of me, because I was his granddaughter.

He was proud of me simply because I was his.

I’ll miss that knowing pride everyday for the rest of my life.

I confess that I always wanted to make him proud, too, but there was a unique peace that came with the assurance that I already had. Somehow, knowing that I didn’t have to strive for his presence and love made me want to be worthy of it all the more. I wanted to be everything he believed me to be. I still do and probably always will. (The same is true for my Nana, too, by the way.)

Years ago, Papa called me to tell me that Nana had a cancerous spot on her skin that needed to be removed. I started crying on the phone with him because this news coupled with history scared me, and his response to my tears in that moment were a reflection of his heart: “Oh, Anna. I didn’t mean to upset you. I would never hurt you, and I’m sorry I had to share this news with you.” It’s true. He would never hurt me. Or anyone. His honest and thoughtful humility has been the foundation of his life, and I am so proud that I got the privilege of being his granddaughter.

There are certain things that people often say to those who grieve, likely because sadness has an uncomfortable way about it. Happiness is an ideal for us humans, and we are prone to pursue and inspire it whenever blue or grey color the world. I believe my Papa is better off now than before and that God orders and ordains beyond my comprehension, yes, but neither of those things make me any less sad. Truthfully, I feel grateful to have had the honor of loving someone so much that it makes me bone-deep sad to live earthside without them.

If grief really is the price we pray for love, then I will gladly pay it over and over again for the rest of my life. I'll hold the pain because it meant I got to spend thirty-five years living in the joy. The memories will be a source of sacred joy from now on, too.

Life will never be the same again, I already feel it even just after a day. I'll never be the same either, and it's because I was loved by one of the best men to ever walk the earth.

My Papa.

We'll miss you forever, Papa.

And we'll love you even longer.

READ MORE ABOUT MY WONDERFUL PAPA HERE.

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