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.