missing him still

Sawdust in Grandpa's shop where I loved to play as a little girl.

It has been a month and a half since my grandpa's funeral.  

This is the first time I've been able to get an understanding of what it really means to lose a loved one.

I've been very blessed in my life; up until my grandpa, I had only felt the loss of two: a childhood friend and a dear great-grandma.

But grandparents are different. I feel so close to all of my grandparents (and I still have five grandparents alive! Yes, I'm quite lucky!) 

but the thing about having that level of love and connection--the loss hurts all that much more.

The pain is softened, purified even, by the knowledge of the Plan of Salvation.  I know where Grandpa is, and I know that he is finally free from pain and sickness, and I know that he is happy and busy.

But I miss him.  

Most of the time it is a mature-feeling "yes, I know he's gone but it's all right." Every once in a while, though,  I'll see a pretty bird that I wish I could tell him about, 

or I'll suddenly be reminded of the way his soft flannel button-up shirt smelled when he would wrap me in his arms,

or I'll see a scribble of his pencil notations on the underside of a wooden chair he made, 

or I'll just remember again that he won't be watching from my mom's rocking chair as we open Christmas presents this year,  and that's when the mature pain gives way to wishing I could collapse in a heap of tears and just cry and cry.

But I can already see that it is good for me.  I have a softer heart for those who have to deal with much bigger losses than mine.  

And I am grateful, oh so grateful, that I know without a doubt that I will see my grandpa again.
He will still (and always) be my grandpa.