It has been three years since my grandfather died. It humbles me and warms my heart that some of you have been my friends long enough to remember when that happened. His passing was both incredibly sad and a beautiful experience. He was not afraid of dying. He almost seemed inspired to die. He lived a full life. He created a beautiful family. He encouraged us to sing as we gathered around his failing body. He was ready to meet his Savior. The time we spent with him at the Hospice Center was time I cherish, both because we were with him and we were with each other (all 30ish of us, sleeping in the floor in the conference rooms, eating insane amounts of pizza).

Through the whole process of his illness and his death, I felt the most pain for my grandmother. They had been together since they were teenagers. I could not imagine my life without Nathan, and trying to add 40 years onto that experience created a loss that I couldn’t even imagine.

I’m not sure if I ever told this story, but late one night, my grandmother was talking to my dad (her son-in-law) while my grandfather slept. She told my dad about how she hadn’t been able to hug my grandfather for months because of the medical equipment attached to him. She told my dad what she wanted more than anything was just another hug.

The next afternoon, my grandfather insisted on standing up. He hadn’t stood in days. He shouldn’t have been able to stand physically. But my family held him up so he could stand. No one knew why he was so insistent on standing until he reached out to hug my grandmother. He oohed and ahhed at her. He patted her on the back as they hugged. And then he insisted that we all give her a round of applause for being the “best wife ever.”

As much as I miss him sometimes, I miss him more for her.

A few days before Christmas, Nathan got a terrible stomach bug. He threw up for hours. Violently. And there was nothing I could do. I just laid in bed, trying to resist the urge to make sure he was okay because I knew I was getting on his nerves. At one point, I got up and got a washcloth to offer him. He said he would be okay and that he didn’t want it.

And that washcloth still sits there on the end of the table in our bedroom, outside of the bathroom. It reminds me to be thankful for every moment. I know the years will pass quickly. I don’t know when one of us will get sick. There are a million chances every day for him to get taken from me. And I want to be thankful for every single moment that he is in my life.

“Every little breath that is in your lungs is a tiny little gift to me.” ~the White Stripes