It feels different

This whole "grandpa dying" thing feels different from how I ever thought it would.

I didn't get to see my grandpa very often tin his last few years of life. I wish I had visited him more while I lived in Portland for the year that I did...he only lived 45 minutes away. But life gets busy and you make excuses not to have to fight the traffic after work every day.

When a grandparent dies, the first thing that comes out of people's mouths is, "Oh, I'm sorry...were you close?"

I find this to be an interesting question. I know why it's asked. I've probably asked that of people in the past. But it kind of minimizes the depth of pain a person may be feeling. Like, "Oh...wait, I'm gonna hold off on my sympathy because it's just a grandparent...unless, of course, you tell me you were close."

For me, I can confidently answer that question with a "yes, we were close." No, we didn't have long chats on the phone....I didn't call him up every week to see how he was doing. But when I did call, we would chat. And when I did visit, we had sweet, tender times.

As a child, I spent a LOT of time with him. When my dad was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, we moved from Germany to Oregon really quickly, and we lived with my grandma and grandpa Perry for a little while while we looked for our own place to live. We spent a lot of time with them, even after we moved into our own apartment...because we lived so close, and my mom and dad needed a lot of help with us.

I have many sweet memories with my grandpa. Picking cherries off of the tree in their back yard, picking tomatoes out of his garden (he was a master gardener), making Micky Mouse pancakes with him...using chocolate chips for the eyes, mouth and nose. Watching him as he'd carve out my next craft project from a fresh batch of wood. Bouncing on his knee as he sang, "This is the way the gentleman rides, clipidy-clop, clipidy-clop......." Building wooden steps down to the little cabin he and his sons built in the woods. Sitting by the fire, coloring in the cabin. The cabin was made out of cedar wood...so everything smelled of cedar. :) Going camping and crabbing with him. Attending jazz festivals at the coast with him. He loved jazz music.

My grandparents showed up to every major event in my life. Every birthday. Every band concert (or most of them.) Graduation...mission farewell...mission homecoming. They weren't members of my church. They used to be, long ago, but they haven't been for as long as I can remember. But still, they came to all my functions at the church. My grandpa stepped in during "daddy-daughter" dances before Chuck came into my life. He's ALWAYS been there.

And this fact...the fact that he's always been there...is a big deal for me. Because my own dad wasn't there. But my dad's dad was always there. He was the extension of my dad. I knew, because my grandpa loved me so much, that my dad must love me that much as well.

So were we close? Yes. Was he old? Yes. Does that lessen the pain? No. Do I miss him? Yes. Am I extremely sad? Yes.

BUT, it sooths my heart to know he's having a little reunion with my dad, my uncle (who also passed away the same year my dad died...yeah...our family is cursed or something) and his parents. In fact, my grandpa's mom died when he was only 7, so he's waited a loooong time to get to see her again. I would have LOVED to have witnessed that reunion.

God lives. He sent his son. The Savior suffered, died, and then rose again. Because of that miracle, we'll all live again. This, I know to be true.