Today is Pops’ birthday.

A year ago, I met my mom and him at Chili’s for his birthday. He had his usual order of Chicken Crispers, and I’m pretty sure he also had a salad with mayo. He loved salad with mayo. I could barely watch him eat it. We had dessert. We chatted about his recent visit to see his brother in California, and what was going on with us. At the end of the night, I forced the three of us to take a selfie outside the restaurant.

I am so glad I did.

I had no idea it would be his last birthday.

How could I? Pops was healthy! He was more active than me most days. He was a regular at the gym, kept up with his six-year-old great-granddaughter, and was still doing light construction when he could.

It makes no sense that he’s not with us anymore. All I want is to meet up with him at Chili’s, tease him about putting mayo on salad, and listen to him talk about Grandma.

***

Last weekend, I drove past the cemetery where now both my grandparents have been laid to rest. It’s a weird feeling, knowing both of them are there and not puttering around in their home.

It still feels surreal that he’s gone forever, that I can’t visit him or see his smile or hear that thick Boston accent of his. I still can’t get his last few days out of my head; they play in flashbacks as I try to fall asleep at night. The hospital room, the cardiac monitors, the look in his eyes right before everything happened. I remember all the discussions we had with his medical team and how we had no idea what was waiting for us at the end of his hospital stay. I remember crying so hard my ribs hurt at his funeral.

I badly wish I could forget those last few weeks. I’d like them wiped from my memory. I want to stop the loop that plays over and over again in my head.

But I can’t forget and I can’t wipe my memory clean. And I wouldn’t have changed anything other than the final outcome. I wouldn’t have changed every last moment I got with Pops. I wouldn’t have changed being there for my mom as she had to process what was happening in real-time.

***

I take a lot of comfort in heaven when death happens. Maybe you don’t believe in it, and that’s okay, but I need to believe in heaven. I need to believe I will see Pops again, and he will be whole and healthy and alive and happy. I need to believe that when Pops left us on earth, he was reunited with Grandma and the two of them are living a life beyond compare in heaven.

Because as deep as my grief is, I feel nothing but peace and joy when I think about Grandma and Pops being united again. They were always meant to be together, and for 50 years, they were. They were each other’s companions. They were fiercely devoted to each other and no one else.

When Pops was originally admitted to the hospital, I found out that he had carried Grandma’s license in his wallet since her death. I’m not sure how I found this out; maybe we were rummaging through his wallet to find his insurance info or an appointment card. But it melted my heart. It’s the silliest thing, a license, yet to him, it was a treasure because it was hers. He didn’t want to let anything of hers go, not even this.

Not to mention, anybody who met Pops after Grandma passed away knew all about her. It was even on the whiteboard in his hospital room, underneath the important notes section. “Barbara was the love of his life.” He talked about Grandma constantly, and everyone who knew him knew how important she was to him.

***

Just typing the words “Pops’ death” makes my heart catch in my throat. I still can’t believe those two words go together. They don’t belong next to each other. And yet, there they are.

Sometimes, my grief feels insurmountable. Like, I can’t catch my breath because the ache inside me is so vast that my lungs can’t fill to capacity. It feels as if there’s this yawning chasm of pain that is always on my periphery, and it’s so big and so dense that it has the ability to bring me to my knees on a daily basis. I try to forget it’s there, but then it pushes its way into my thoughts and I can’t do anything but cry and remember how deep this loss is. In three short years, my family lost both our matriarch and our patriarch, and it doesn’t feel like the world should keep spinning after that.

Last weekend, I had a dream that Pops visited the family to check in with us. In my dream, I knew he was dead but he wanted to see how we were doing. It’s such a Pops thing to do, honestly, and I was so happy to see him and talk to him. It’s the first dream I’ve had of him since his death where we were able to interact; in all other dreams, I would talk to him and he wouldn’t answer me, and it was completely devastating. I woke up from that dream sad but also delighted. I’ll miss Pops desperately forever, but I’m glad he can visit me in my dreams when I need him.

When Grandma died, I wrote a post on the life lessons she taught me, so it’s only right for me to do the same for Pops. This post is long because I guess I still have so much to say about Pops, his legacy, and how much I miss him, so let’s get right to it:

1) Every person matters.

Pops loved people. He loved his family, he loved his church, he loved the people he met at the gym, he loved strangers. Every person was deserving of a smile and a conversation, in his mind. Every person had a story to tell, and it was his job to learn that story and connect with them. He was interested in people. He was interested in their lives and it was from a place of complete authenticity. I don’t think I ever had a conversation with Pops that didn’t leave me feeling seen and heard.

In this respect, I am not like Pops at all. I am not great at making conversation and I hate it when strangers strike up a conversation with me out of the blue. I get suspicious about their motives. It’s not something I like about myself, and I have always wished I was more like Pops. He was just genuine in his regard for people, and I can only imagine how it must have brightened so many lives. Imagine having a bad day and then this adorable older gentleman stops you, gives you a big smile, and asks how you are. That’s the impact he had.

2) Finding your soulmate is what makes life beautiful.

Pops and Grandma were soulmates in every sense of the world. They got married young, as teenagers, and raised six children together. They lived out every single sentence of their vows – for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health. Til death did they part. Grandma was there for him when he was battling alcoholism. Pops was there for her when she was battling cancer. Grandma helped him when his business was booming, and they were there for each other in times of strife. They were the epitome of what marriage should be. There was never a doubt in either’s mind that their love was strong enough to withstand anything.

I’ll be completely honest here: Pops was desperate for me to find my soulmate, and it kind of irritated me. I’ve built a truly happy and whole life on my own, and while it would be nice to find someone to share my life with, I’m also not waiting for that for my life to “start.” (Also, have you swiped through Tinder lately? It’s not pretty.) But I’ve come to understand that Pops didn’t want me to find my soulmate because he thought my life is meaningless without him. He wanted me to find him because he knows how bright and beautiful it is to go through life with your soulmate at your side. To have someone to share delights in, to cry with, to adventure with. We are social creatures and we are meant to do life with other people. That’s all Pops wanted for me, and I wish I had the time to talk to him about this. It’s a regret I have to live with.

3) Nothing is more important than your relationship with Jesus.

I mentioned in my post last week that Pops was a man of faith, and it was not something he hid. He would talk to anyone, even strangers, about Jesus. I remember the first night in the hospital when the nurse was doing the intake process with him, and one of the questions she asked was his religion. His response: “I’m an on-fire Christian.” For him, his faith was about more than religion and reading the Bible and going to church. It was a living relationship with Jesus. And what he wanted for all of his kids and daughters-in-law and grandkids and great-grandkids was for us to have that same fire for Jesus as he did.

My approach to faith in the past few years has been much different than Pops’. I haven’t been to a church in years, haven’t opened a Bible in about as long, and I’m still wrestling with what faith means to me and what I want it to look like in my life. I believe in God and I want to have that same love for Jesus that Pops had, but I also have a problem with the church and Christianity as it looks like in our culture today. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe I need to wrestle with all of this to find a faith that makes sense to me. I want to have that same honest, hopeful relationship Pops had, a relationship where he believed wholeheartedly in Jesus and His teachings. It was never a question for him, and his faith was so steadfast that he was able to let his wife of 56 years go, completely at peace with the decision. There’s something so beautiful in that.

4) Never be afraid to live your truth.

Pops was a man who was completely, fully himself. He didn’t try to fit himself in a box or conform to the world. He was just… Pops. He was a man who loved Jesus and was changed by his faith, so he wanted everyone else to have that same change. He was a man who cried in public and wasn’t ashamed about it. He was a man who requested mayonnaise for his salad without a single ounce of embarrassment. (But, seriously, can we talk about mayo on salad?) For Pops, there was no other way to be but himself, and he wasn’t going to apologize for it.

I’m not built like that. For one, as a woman growing up in the culture today, it’s not as easy to live my truth. (Let’s face it: as a white man, Pops had privileges I’ll never have.) I’m told to be quiet but not too quiet, friendly but not too friendly, funny but not too funny, sweet but not too sweet. On and on and on. But what’s the point of that? For Pops, he didn’t see the point in worrying about what other people thought of him. He just lived his truth as fully as he could, and I’m so inspired by that. I want to live my truth, too, to accept myself as I am today and stop apologizing for being too quiet or sarcastic or vulnerable. At the end of the day, what matters most is that you live in a way that makes you proud and happy and accomplished.

5) People deserve to be seen.

This life lesson could be folded into the first one above, but I wanted to really drive home the point that Pops just loved people and conversation. After his funeral, my mom and I talked with a man that Pops just called “the bishop.” He was a member at the same YMCA that Pops went to, and they struck up a beautiful friendship based on their respective faiths. The bishop told us about Pops and the impact he had on everyone he met at the gym. He even helped to rebuild the home of a YMCA member who was struggling. Pops used his own money (of which he didn’t have much of) and reached out to other people and churches to help this man. There was no ulterior motive here; he just wanted to help him, to show him what true Christianity looks like.

It reminds me that everyone deserves to be seen, even the people you may pass right over. This man has probably been passed over a lot of times in his life, but Pops saw him. He saw his soul, not the persona he shows to the rest of the world. He saw someone that God carefully and wonderfully made, someone God loved just as much as He loved Pops. I want to see people the way Pops saw them. Every soul matters, every person deserves your love and respect.

6) Family always comes first.

Pops loved his family. He loved his kids and his grandkids and his great-grandkids. He never, ever missed a birthday party for my nephews, not even J’s birthday party in September when he could barely walk because the pain in his back was so bad. He would always greet me with a big smile whenever he saw me like just the presence of me lit up his whole world. With Pops, I never questioned his great, big love for me. I knew he loved me unconditionally and spending time with him never failed to cheer me up and put me in a good mood.

My brother and I were lucky to be some of the first grandchildren in his life. My brother and I are the third and fourth of the grandchildren, but the first and second live out-of-state, so for the first seven years of my life (eight for my brother), we got Grandma and Pops all to ourselves. We got one-on-one playdates and sleepovers and outings. I remember a family ski trip when I was twelve and Pops taking my brother and me night skiing, which was the total highlight of the trip for me, mostly because we had Pops all to ourselves. He was there for all of my graduations, all of my holidays, and every single Super Bowl party we had. He was always there because family matters to him. He was the patriarch, and he was a great one at that.

I’m so glad I got to see him every day of the two weeks he was in the hospital. It was important to me to be there for Pops in the way he had always been there for me. During those two weeks, I got to tell him over and over again how much I loved him. I got to hear him tell me he loved me, multiple times; see him smile at me whenever I walked into his hospital room; and listen to him tell my mom and me, “You girls take such good care of me,” again and again.

I miss him so much. This loss was so unexpected and so painful, and all Pops wanted to do was to get better so he could get back to doing what he loved: being around people and enjoying his family. He wasn’t ready to go, and that’s what makes this loss so heartbreaking. He wasn’t ready, and neither were we. We still need him here. I still need him to tell me about his courtship with Grandma and his early years of marriage and his childhood. I need him to be there when I introduce him to the man I’m going to marry, the man he prayed so desperately for. I need him to be there during holidays and Super Bowl parties and random gatherings because he’s never not been there, and I don’t know how this world works without him.

I miss you, Pops. Thanks for giving me so many life lessons and a reminder to love people, love family, and love Jesus above all else. I will try my best to live out the legacy you left us.

I have a post sitting in my drafts, and I was going to publish it last week to explain my absence from my blog. In the post, I talked about how I haven’t had time to blog because my grandpa (“Pops”) was in the hospital and I was spending every evening with him.

I never got to publish that post because the day before I was going to do so, Pops passed away.

It was shocking, traumatic, and completely unexpected. It has thrown my whole family into a loop because we all expected him to live for 20 more years at least. He was supposed to be someone who lived until he was 100. He was supposed to be one of those guys still kicking it at the gym in his nineties.

Instead, he’s now buried next to my grandma, gone at 77.

None of it makes sense and I’ve had a hard time wrapping my head around what happened. None of us ever expected we’d be saying goodbye to Pops and watching his casket be lowered into the ground on November 1st, a mere 18 days after he entered the hospital for back surgery.

This is the first time I’ve had to deal with an unexpected death in my family. I’ve lost great-grandparents, but it was always due to old age. I lost my grandma, but she had metastatic cancer and we had time to say our goodbyes. I lost Dutch, but I knew in the months leading up to his death what was coming. With Pops, it was entirely shocking. He may have been 77 years old, but he sure didn’t act like it.

Before his back pain got too bad, he was at the gym just about every day. He was swimming, keeping active, and maintaining relationships with the people he met at the gym. Just a few weeks ago, he had flown to Georgia for my cousin’s wedding. He lived an active, fulfilling life and had a massive impact on every person he saw.

Pops could talk to anyone, the complete opposite of me. Last year during my nephew’s birthday party, my mom and I laughed as we watched him go from person to person standing around the room, engaging them in conversation. My mom said, “There’s not a single person there who could say nobody talked to them.” He cared about people in a way that was totally genuine; even if you were a stranger, he wanted to get to know you. He believed in the impact of people and relationships.

Even in the hospital, he made friends. The nurses adored him, one of them (our favorite nurse) telling Pops over and over again how Pops was going to be his bodyguard when he recovered. They bent over backward for him because Pops was the most pleasant patient. Even in the midst of pain, he would smile at the nurse and ask how they were doing.

Pops was ready to live for many more years, and that’s what feels so hard about losing him. I expected to have decades longer with him. I expected him to see me marry and love on my babies. I thought I would be able to bake him so many more batches of cookies, have so many more holidays with him.

People tend to think that losing a grandparent isn’t as hard as losing someone at a young age because they’ve “lived.” They have had a full life. And that’s true. Pops had a full life. He spent 56 years married to the love of his life, survived alcoholism that threatened his marriage, got to watch all six of his children and all eleven of his grandchildren grow up. He got to see many of those grandchildren marry and have kids of their own. He had a successful stint in the Navy, owned a booming construction business, and traveled all over the country. A full life, indeed.

But it doesn’t hurt any less that I lost him at 77. It doesn’t hurt any less that I’m now 30 years old and have lost all of my grandparents. It still hurts. I still grieve deeply. I still believe he should be here, fighting through physical therapy treatments at his rehab facility. He shouldn’t be gone.

But he is gone. And he’s gone to a much better place. Because, you see, above everything else, Pops was a man of faith. He was the man who read his Bible every day, believed wholeheartedly in the Word of God, and could quote Scripture like nobody else. He led the Children’s Church ministry at my church throughout my entire childhood, and for him, there was never any doubt as to who Jesus was and what He meant to Pops. Pops loved Jesus with every fiber of his being. His faith was a constant, moving force within him. It was everything to him. It was what comforted him when he had to say goodbye to his wife for the last time. It was what kept him going through each day, as he tried to build a life without his wife by his side. His faith was the most essential part of his soul.

And on Sunday afternoon, on the 28th of October, he finally got to meet Jesus. Can you imagine? All of those years of praying and reading his Bible and following Christ with his whole heart, and he got to see Him, hear His voice. I can only imagine how Jesus greeted a servant as faithful as Pops. I can only imagine the beautiful party that was had as Pops walked into the open arms of his Father.

I miss Pops desperately and this grief feels overwhelming. But as the pastor said during Pops’ funeral service, he wouldn’t come back here even if he could. He’s where he belongs now. He served his purpose on earth, and now it’s time for the rest of us to fulfill his legacy.

I can only hope I make him as proud as he made me.