The love of a grandpa.

When I was 8 years old, my dad moved me and my very pregnant mother to Michigan from our home in California. We never really talked about it, but I think my dad was just ready to go home.

That trek across the country is a story for another post, because today I want to tell you about my grandpa.

My grandpa was diagnosed and died of cancer within just two short years of us moving to Michigan.

I wish I could tell you the life story of Lawrence John Lark, Senior. But the only stories I can tell you are the moments I remember in the 9 years I got to be his granddaughter here on Earth.

My grandpa and I shared a lot of things. We had traditions. Like eating chips and dip, and taking long walks in the woods. Perhaps my favorite tradition was that each time I came to visit, my grandpa would take me shopping for one toy. I can remember the excitement, and exactly what it felt like to crawl across the leather seats into his big car. My dad will laugh when he reads this, but I remember how he drove with his seat way back, his long arm reaching all the way to the steering wheel. There was one specific trip where my grandpa bought me a Polly Pocket mansion, complete with a horse-drawn carriage. What I remember most about that particular trip is the look on my mother’s face when we returned, thinking about how much it must have cost.

My grandpa spoiled me.

I can remember one summer day, when my grandpa and I were outside together in his side yard. Grandpa was already sick by this time, and he was sitting in a lawn chair enjoying the sun. It was late morning, perfectly warm and sunny. I had my Walkman on, and I was playing Ace of Base. I was just 9 years old at the time, and my favorite thing was to sing the lyrics at full volume and make up synchronized dances. I guess my grandpa was watching me, no doubt laughing at my ridiculousness. When my dad came outside to see what we were doing, my grandpa looked at him, so serious, and said, “Does she actually know what those songs mean?”

My grandpa was funny.

The last memory I have was the day that my grandpa died. I remember when the phone rang, and I remember the first and last time I ever saw my dad cry. I remember sitting on my windowsill and praying, praying, praying that God would take it back.

I remember growing up a little in that moment, and learning the hard truth that death is so much a part of life.

Although I have been blessed with the love and devotion of good men—my father, husband, brother, and uncles—no one can ever love you as unconditionally as your grandparents.

There are so many moments that I wish I could have shared with my grandpa. So many parts of my own story that he should have been a part of. I wish he could have met Chuck; I wish he had been at my wedding; I wish he could see my brother grown.

At our most recent family gathering, my grandma asked me if I thought my grandpa was watching us. Although I can still feel his love, I only hope that he can see us.

If he is, I hope he enjoys our stories.


My grandpa and I, together.