I’ve been sitting with this deep ache in my heart, trying to find the right words to say about a man who meant so much to me. And the truth is, I don’t think I can capture all of him. But I am going to try.
Grandpa wasn’t just my grandfather. He was my teacher. My encourager. My biggest cheerleader. He was someone who showed up for me in all the ways I needed—and in so many ways I didn’t even know I needed at the time.He filled a space in my life that went far beyond the role of “grandpa.”
He helped homeschool me, and he made learning feel alive. He brought the Middle Ages to life with stories of knights and castles, taught me how to write a check, and explained the stock market to me through mock investments in brands I recognized as a kid. We’d track the market together like it was a game—me learning not just about money, but about curiosity, patience, and asking good questions.
He had such a love of history and poetry. I think that’s where I first learned that the past wasn’t just something to memorize—it was something to feel, something to wonder about. He had this quiet, reverent way of teaching me to appreciate beautiful things.
And the way he encouraged me—my God. Grandpa believed in me. Every time we talked, he asked about my life, my work, my dreams. He reminded me that he was praying for me. He never let me forget that I was loved, that I mattered, and that he was proud of me—even when I didn’t feel proud of myself.
He didn’t just love me that way. He loved people that way. He had a gift for making even strangers feel seen. I think that was one of his superpowers—he noticed people. He looked you in the eye and made you feel like you were worth something. That kind of kindness is rare.
Grandpa was an emotional man. And he never once tried to hide it. He cried when something touched him. He wore his heart out in the open, and it made everyone around him feel safe to be vulnerable too. His strength was in his softness. His tears were sacred. They told you just how deeply he loved.
He had an amazing sense of humor. Grandpa was so quick-witted—always ready with a clever remark or a well-timed pun. Some of them made you laugh. Some made you groan. All of them made you smile. He could find a light moment in just about anything and he never took himself too seriously.
And then there was the singing. Grandpa loved to break into song at random moments—whether we were in the kitchen or in a restaurant or just mid-conversation.
He never cared if it was in tune or on key—he just sang because he felt like it, and that joy was contagious. It was one of my favorite things about him—unfiltered and full of life.
Grandpa loved his desserts. Especially cookies. I can still hear Grandma asking him—half laughing, half scolding—if he really planned to eat an entire sleeve of Oreos. And telling him to put it down. I inherited that sweet tooth.
But the most beautiful thing about Grandpa was the way he loved my grandma.
Their marriage was something rare—I’ve never seen anything quite like it outside of them.Every night, Grandpa would tuck her into bed. Even though they had separate rooms, he would sit on the side of her bed, rub her back, and talk with her until she was ready to sleep. Every single night. That quiet ritual… that simple, faithful act of love… it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever witnessed.
And even on the day he lost her—the love of his life for 72 years—his thoughts weren’t only on himself. When I went to the rehab center to pick him up and drive him to the house to see her one last time, he was heartbroken. But what he kept saying to my brother and his wife was, “I’m worried about Hannah.” Over and over again. And later, as I explained that I had stepped out to handle calling the funeral home, he just shook his head and said, “It’s always Hannah.” On the worst day of his life, when his world had just shattered, he was still thinking about me. Still worried about me. That’s who he was. That’s the kind of love he gave. Even in the midst of his deepest grief, he wrapped me in his love and concern. And I’ll never forget that.
It will be hard—maybe impossible—for me to find anyone who will love me the way they both did. That kind of steady, unconditional, all-in love… it shaped me. It held me. It became a part of who I am.
Grandpa gave me so much. Knowledge. Encouragement. Laughter. Faith. Joy. Stability. And most of all—love. The kind of love that doesn’t fade when someone is gone. The kind that stays with you forever, echoing in everything you do.
I miss him. So deeply. I miss his voice, his prayers, his jokes, his hugs. I miss his singing. I miss knowing that he’s out there thinking about me.
But I carry him with me. In how I treat people. In how I love. In how I cry without shame. In how I try to live a life that would make him proud.
Thank you, Grandpa. For every moment. For every lesson. For every prayer. For every time you saw me, believed in me, and loved me.
I love you. I miss you. And I will carry you with me—always.
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