The House Without Him

My grandpa had his funeral yesterday, and we made the trek to Rexburg. Before the trip, I was talking with my brother, and he told me that going to my grandpa's house would be difficult. He was right.

We got to Rexburg and drove past the college. We pulled into his driveway, and I could feel the tears coming. I got out of the car and walked toward his side door. My tears started to flow. I couldn't walk into his house knowing it would be empty. My mom held me and told me that it was okay. I cried for a little bit, and then I went inside. The tears came faster. My husband held me as I repeated, "He isn't here."

This wasn't my grandpa's house without him.

It took me a while to compose myself, but the grief was stronger than I realized.

I pictured each room and the memories it held. As a child, the living room was where my grandparents watched the news and The Price Is Right. As an adult, it was where I would find my grandpa reading in his rocking chair and greeting me as I walked into the house. His greetings often included a hug and questions about my life. How were my classes going? It was where I would often study and take cat naps on his green couches. 

As a child, the kitchen was where we grabbed endless popsicles before heading back outside to play in the backyard and climb trees. As an adult, it was where I found dollar-store iced oatmeal cookies and his delicious homemade honey wheat bread. He would grind wheat in his basement and bake bread on a regular basis. On a cold snowy day, toast and butter made the perfect snack while I studied. He taught me how to make toffee and caramels. He knew his recipe by heart, and he taught me which color the toffee needed to be before you could take it off the stove.

Each room in his house held memories from my life that played through my mind like a reel as I walked through it. It was overwhelming to process the reality of my grandpa's death.

I felt empty as I sat in the blue room on the gold couch. The furniture was still there, but boxes of my grandpa's belongings filled the room. When my siblings arrived, I was able to find more joy. My family was together in my grandpa's house once again, just like all those summers spent coming to Rexburg.

We went through my grandpa's belongings, and the feelings began to change. The sadness lingered, but there was also a sense of gratitude. I could see my grandpa through the different stages of his life. There were pictures, postcards from their world travels, and lots of souvenirs from the Middle East. My Grandma and Grandpa taught religion at the BYU Jerusalem Center, and traveled all throughout the Middle East. 

We ventured onto the BYU-Idaho campus, and things started to feel more normal. We had lunch in the cafeteria and reminisced about college. We went bowling and enjoyed a fun game together. It felt like all the previous summers and memories we had shared on campus as a family.

The viewing was later that night, and I knew it would be hard. I didn't take my kids because I didn't want to spend the evening chasing around a toddler. I walked into the funeral home and saw his casket. He looked good, but seeing him there made his death feel real. The tears once again flowed. My husband and mom hugged me as I cried. There was my grandpa, who often felt more like a best friend.

My mom told me that I could cry, but she also encouraged me to listen to the stories people shared. They talked about how much his friendship meant to them and how much they loved him. It helped me realize just how much love filled his life. He lived a life full of love.

As I reflected on why this grief and loss had hit so hard, I realized that my grief was compounded. I was mourning the loss of my grandpa's home, my childhood memories, my grandma, and my grandpa.

Perhaps that is why the grief felt so much bigger than I expected. My grandpa's death marked the end of something larger. With both of my grandparents gone, the house no longer felt like the gathering place it had been for decades. The traditions, routines, and familiar rhythms that shaped so many summers had come to an end. I wasn't only mourning who I had lost. I was mourning a chapter of life that could never be recreated.

My grandpa's house was a vessel. It was not just furniture and rooms within four walls. It was a place that held so many of my formative memories. My grandma's death was not as difficult to process because she still felt alive in the house. Their pink bedroom helped you realize that her love was always lingering.

But now that both of my grandparents had passed away, the house felt different. The furniture was still there. The pink bedroom was still there. The memories were still there. But the people who made it feel like home were gone.

I know that it isn't true that it will all be gone. The memories are woven into me and will always remain.

I don't know what will happen to my grandpa's house, and that was hard as I did my final walk-through. But the memories that house held are woven into who I am. Long after the house changes, I will still remember walking through that side door and seeing my grandpa rise from his rocking chair to greet me with a hug.