My Grandpa died on Friday
kidneys for the last two.
I remember that he worked a lot, not only at his business (he was in the concrete business) but also on various projects around the house, shed, or garage. He was always making things. I remember that he
smoked a lot. Growing up, I don't remember seeing him without a cigarette, unless he had to be somewhere smoking wasn't allowed. Then he found reasons to go for long walks. After dinner, he would sit in his favorite chair in front of the TV with a book in his lap, and fall asleep. His snore sounded like Grandma's old-fashioned percolating coffee pot, but loud enough to be heard through walls and from one end of the house to the other.
I remember how much he loved passing out the presents on Christmas morning. I remember that he took me fishing, and taught me how to cast at the proper angle for maximum distance. He had a deep voice, a gruff manner, and a loud laugh. He would say amazing things, and give us funny nicknames, and you had to watch his eyes to tell if he was joking. These things made my sister afraid of him when we were little, but filled me with a feeling more akin to awe. I remember him on holidays and at family reunions and picnics, eating, smoking, drinking, laughing, and swearing. He wasn't safe, but he was good. And I loved him.
For all who have died in the communion of your Church, and those whose faith is known to you alone, that, with all the saints, they may have rest in that place where there is no pain or grief, but life eternal,
we pray to you, O Lord.