The Measure of a Life

Yesterday marked one year since my grandfather died. And the day got away from me before I could write anything, so I am doing it now. This may sound terrible, but I prayed that God would take him before I moved overseas, because I wanted to be there and didn't want to do my mourning here. The week of Thanksgiving last year was a difficult one for me; I've never grieved like that before. Watching someone that you deeply care for slowly waste away in front of your eyes gives one such a feeling of helplessness. Death by starvation is a merciful death, but not merciful to those who are watching it occur. Even thinking about it now I realize that I still grieve his loss, though I know that he's so much happier now and feels wonderful. I loved him so much and still miss him, one year later. The following is what I wrote last year:

"I am thankful for the life and death of my grandfather. He was not my biological grandfather, but was the only one that I ever knew. He was a quiet, reserved man at home, who boomed out his "Amens" and out-of-tune hymns at church. He had a strong faith and I'm confident that he's now free of pain and with his great Creator. He was always a bit of a mystery to me, rarely talking, but always willing to let us watch the news with him or follow him around. I always loved him, but grew to cherish him over the past two years as I spent time with him at the nursing home. I didn't know him as anything other than a kind, quiet, gentle man. I didn't know him when he was young, when he pursued his first wife, went to war, raised his daughter, buried his wife, and then met and married my grandmother. I don't know what kind of husband, father, or friend he was to others. The measure of the man that I knew was laughter, quietness, gentility, patience and a deep and abiding love for God. He was my beloved Pop and I will miss him very much."