This past Sunday marked a year that my grandpa died. The day was heavy, full of memories and tears. I went into his bedroom, gathered his pillow to my face and I could still smell him. I walk into their house a couple of times I week and sometimes I still think I will see him in his big chair. This man meant so much to me. We saw them so much growing up. And then they moved next door. He was a part of almost every Christmas and Thanksgiving since I was 12. All through my teenage years he was there, doing weekly room inspections, yelling at me for various things. He taught me to drive in their big white station wagon. I almost killed both of us while he was teaching me to pass. He and Grandma had dinner with our family at least once a week followed by games. He was there when Noah was born and we knew that something wasn't right. He was holding my hand when mom and dad told us that Noah had Cerebral Palsy. He drove down with me to college, exclaiming how glad he was that I was now far away. He was one of the first people to know that I was pregnant with Jonah. He took me aside on my wedding day and told me to feed Matt well and love him always. He drove our getaway car. He held each of my children when they were days old, but was quick to hand them back, claiming they were too small yet, he'd play with them when they were bigger. He wept when we left to move to Nebraska, he urged me to hurry and bring his kids back to him when we moved home. He was there for most of the kids birthday parties, always making sure no one was eating too much. He played hard with the kids, throwing them into the pool, driving them around on his cart, loving on them always.

This man was so much more than my grandfather, he was one of my closest confindants, my champion when life felt like just too much, ever the prankster, ever the hugger....just my grandpa.