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***warning- probably a sad and raw blog is to follow so anyone who doesn't wish to read- no hard feelings***

I had to say goodbye to a very beloved grandfather this week. It was rather sudden and unexpected and man does it hurt to say goodbye. Several things have impressed themselves on my mind as we traveled through this experience. I process things best by talking about them- sometimes til people want to scream at me to shut up about it already. This situation is different for me- the pain is a little too deep, a little too hurtful to talk openly and at length about. So I choose this method to get out some of the feelings bouncing around my heart.

About a week before we lost Grandpa, a friend shared this thought with me about marriage: "The standard of beauty and love in a marriage shouldn't come from the first day of your married life, but rather should focus on the last day." This thought was lived in front of me in the week and hours leading up to Grandpa's passing. I stood by his bed and watched my Grandma stroke his forehead and cheeks and all I saw was an elderly woman standing by the bed of a man she loved, no matter that his hair was mostly gone, no matter that his body was weakened and he struggled to walk sometimes, no matter that his hands sometimes shook and he needed her help with a lot of his daily activities. There was no resentment of the time it took to take care of him. The love was deep and it was shining in her eyes, swimming in the tears she tried to keep from spilling down her cheeks. It was apparent in how she kept a hand on him almost at all times- as if she knew that somewhere, in some depths of conciousness, he knew she was there and that he needed her down to this very last day of his life. She told me that the hours before he passed away, she prayed over and over that he would go, because his breathing was so labored and she didn't want him to suffer anymore. I love to watch older couples taking care of each other. Sometimes, they are both so unstable that you have to wonder who is helping who. But either way, it is so touching to see the undying support and love between those two people who are depending on only each other to get through their days. Almost as if they know that they can no longer do certain things on their own, but together they still make a team that can accomplish what needs to be done- each one filling in where the other lacks. If you pray, please pray for my grandma, as she adjusts to being on her own now. She is a strong believer and a strong woman, but it must be so difficult to face the empty bedroom, the empty chair, his Bible that he will not pick up again.

On the way to his hometown for visitation, there were so many buildings, fields, ponds, even signs that pulled at my heart, gently saying "remember?" I don't know if everyone is like this or just me, but sometimes the strangest thing will catch my eye and a feeling of homesickness for the past will rise up so strong it almost chokes me. For instance, wandering around outside my grandparents house, I walked over a piece of sidewalk that is cracked in a funny pattern I have never seen anywhere else. And it reached out and grabbed my attention, crying out to me of hot summers outside Grandma's house, of bright yellow and orange marigolds lining the sidewalk begging to be picked, the honeysuckle spilling over the back wall of the porch, the porch swing, the strip of fly catcher hanging from the ceiling, the colored glass in the window, of Grandpa reading his beloved western books until one certain ornery granddaughter sprayed him in the face with a garden hose.... These things, these "threads" all normally weave together in one big tapestry of my life, staying hidden in the recesses and files of my mind until they are called forward by something, catching the light to shine brightly for a second and to remind me of something from the past, something bittersweet only because the time has now passed. How extremely precious these threads are to me- how I wish I could record everything more perfectly in my mind and heart so that I would never lose the detail surrounding them. All I can do now is try and get them recorded as best as I can remember them, so that I don't lose even one more thing.

Grandpa loved to fish. He loved to fish more than just about anything outside of his family. He took us with him all the time when we were younger. I can remember climbing up in his old light blue truck, windows down, wind blowing in your face, white styrofoam bait holder in the back of the truck, red canteen full of ice water right beside it, sometimes with stink bait or livers on the seat beside you, fishing poles in the back. Seemed like when you pulled up to the ponds, there were always weeds to wade through- even though he took us to the ones easiest to get to. Grandma wore floppy hats. Grandpa wore his old faded jeans, some sort of lightweight plaid short sleeve shirt, with a ballcap on his bald head, and fishing boots on his feet. We sat up the chairs and the bait bucket and the canteen and then Grandpa would scour the ground or trees for good Y shaped branches so he could cast out more than one pole at a time and not have to hold them all. He would bait my hook and help me fish. The day of his funeral, my uncle Tony took all the grandkids out to the pond he almost always took us to, and we all threw out lures and corks into the pond in his honor. I am so glad we did that- it was a different kind of thing then the funeral, a different send off- just from the kids he cared so deeply for. I know he would have liked that.

We buried Grandpa on what seemed like the hottest day ever. We all trekked out to this little teeny tiny family cemetery, our cars distanced the perfect way apart- close enough to keep track of each other, and far enough away to be able to see through all the blinding white dust kicked up from the country roads. He had an honor guard for his service in the Korean war. I was extraordinarily touched by this group of veterans- I am not trying to be mean in any way but these poor old men were so old and shakey that I was a little concerned they wouldn't be able to actually get the guns to fire. The two men that folded up Grandpa's flag could barely even get their hands to stop shaking long enough to get the flag folded properly. And yet they came out in the searing heat to give Grandpa the honor he deserved. I love those men for sacrificing their time, their comfort to come out and share in our grief.

I lost my other grandpa a little over 4 years ago now, so I know that the pain from losing them doesn't go away. Rather it heals enough to dull the pain a little, so that it isn't in your heart every second of the day. I still miss my Papa and I know I will miss Grandpa forever. The only way I can describe it is that my world is no longer "right", it is now missing a huge piece of it. The gap fills in a little, replaced by other people, daily cares, and time. But I don't want it to fill in completely because if I can't have them, then I at least want the memories there to hold their places forever in my heart.