When I think of Grandpa, a few words always come to mind. The first word that fits him perfectly is tough. Grandpa was, without question, the toughest person I’ve ever known. When my dad told me that Grandpa had passed away peacefully, I told my wife that this must have been the only way death could have taken him—because if there had been a fight, I’m pretty sure Grandpa would’ve won. I’ll always remember looking out at my wedding and seeing him there, pushing through the pain. He had a way of showing up, no matter what. I remember proudly telling my groomsmen, “My Grandpa is unstoppable.” It didn’t matter if he was dealing with a broken back or any other challenge—if Grandpa decided he was going to do something, he did it. And that was that.
The next word that comes to mind is joyfulness. Grandpa had this incredible ability to find humor in every situation. He never missed a chance to crack a joke or give you a playful tease, no matter what was going on. It was like he carried a light-heartedness with him, making life seem just a little bit easier. He had a way of making everyone around him laugh and reminding us all not to take life too seriously. Grandpa embodied this joy in such a natural, effortless way, and it’s something I’ll always remember about him.
The last thought that comes to mind when I think of Grandpa isn’t really a word but more of a feeling. It’s hard to explain except to say he was everything a grandpa should be—kind, wise, funny, and always there when you needed him. One memory that stands out for me is from my time in kindergarten, during one of my worst days. We were playing with these heavy wooden blocks, and when it was time to put them away, things got crowded, and I accidentally dropped a block on my best friend’s head. He had to go to the hospital, and my teacher, who didn’t see what happened, blamed me. I was crushed and too ashamed to explain what really happened. That day, I went home feeling like the worst kid in the world.
As fate would have it, Grandpa was visiting that day. He must’ve noticed something was off because he gently asked, “What’s wrong?” I mumbled that I had a bad day at school, and without missing a beat, he knelt down and asked me to tell him the whole story. He listened—really listened—with that same kind and wise look he always had. He comforted me, letting me know that it would all get better in time, even though it felt awful in the moment. And he was right, as always. I’ll never forget the relief I felt after talking to him, or how much his presence mattered.
When I was a kid, Grandpa had this way of making me feel like I was his absolute favorite. As I got older, I noticed he had that same spark in his eye when talking about my cousins. I started to think maybe they were his favorites too. And then, years later, I’d watch him talk to my wife, and I’d catch that same twinkle. That’s when I realized: he made all of us feel like his favorites. That’s just who he was—he loved us all deeply and uniquely.
It’s strange to think about how much I miss him, even though we didn’t see each other as often as I would’ve liked. But I do. I miss him more than I can say. Still, I take comfort in knowing that he isn’t really gone. He’s left a part of himself with me, with all of us, shaping who we are in small but meaningful ways. And I like to imagine him now, sitting up in heaven, sharing jokes with St. Peter, with that same twinkle in his eye, waiting for us, ready to say, “You’re still my favorite.” He’s at peace now, and that makes me glad. I’ve also heard that heaven has the best crossword puzzles, so I’m sure he’s having a great time up there.