One by one they dip down into the driveway in front of the cabin. I knew my kids would come. Some were already on their way when they got the final phone call from his bedside at the hospital, “Your Daddy’s gone.” But I hadn’t expected these grown grandchildren to step away from their busy lives and travel to this tucked-away place in the north woods by the lake. And they stay all week, covering me with their love.

Some work remotely in the early morning hours. When I come down at 5:30, Hunter is at the oak table with his computer. It’s 7:30 in Indiana. I start the coffee for him and climb the stairs to try to sleep a bit more.

They do Grampa’s winter chores outside, emptying the window boxes of the spent petunias, putting away the rake and pickaxe leaning against the Mountain Ash and the tools in front of the garage, tarping the riding mower, closing the cellar door tight, taking the flag down. Look around inside for things I might need done. When we find ourselves sitting together in the living room, I tell each of them the details of Grampa’s passing—so they don’t wonder about anything. I tell them how hard he fought to stay with us, how kind they were to us at the hospital for those long hours waiting, how focused they were on his comfort.

They sit in his chair, these grown grandkids, and decide to watch Grampa’s favorite movies, one each night. With supper plates in our laps they start Planes, Trains, and Automobiles and he’s right there with us again—laughing so hard he wheezes and gasps for air as John Candy plays his dashboard piano and tries to get out of his jacket, slip-sliding down the wrong side of the freeway in the middle of the night.

We have no plans yet for a service. We remember his holding court, entertaining us around the supper table on the porch one summer when this subject came up. “Just put me on a raft in the lake and push me on out, then shoot the flaming arrow.” I don’t think that’s allowed, even in Montana. He never wanted any “fuss,” any gathering to talk about him. I’d always reply, sassy with a smile, “You won’t be here, so we’ll just go ahead and do what we want.” We don’t know what we want.

My kids and I meet with the funeral home director. That afternoon I look around the room and I know we need to mark this time together. An idea comes to me that I hadn’t thought of before.

“What do you think about burying Grampa here, at Stonecroft?”

Their faces tell me “Yes.”

“I was thinking maybe down on the point above the water where he spent so many hours clearing and mowing and grooming around those beautiful rocks. Somewhere between the fire ring and the edge of the point . . . You guys decide.”

Later, I see Hunter and Jake out the kitchen window, scouting with Piper in the gray cold, then digging with Grampa’s two worn shovels, one of them half it’s original size. Their fathers join them. It’s darkening when they come in.

We’ve slept. Cindy and the girls are in from their long drive from Texas. The mortuary has informed us that the necessary legal documents are complete. Mary and I make the trip to town. “I’ll carry it Mama.” I ask Jordan to write a note for me to tuck in the box when we get home, “Beloved Husband, Father, Grandfather.” Some add their own notes.

We circle around the fire in our puffy jackets. This morning’s snow flurries have stopped but it is cold. I hadn’t planned a speech but want to tell them about this place and our dreams. How thirty-three years ago when we were talking about buying Stonecroft Grampa wasn’t thinking about them. He was thinking about Aunt Anna Lou. We had only one granddaughter then, one-year-old Jordan. I tell them how life is full of turns and detours for all of us, how dreams get deferred . . . yet God often gives us something even more beautiful than we could have planned. I tell them how important it was to Grampa to leave this place free and clear for them, how we were finally able to do that a few years ago.

 “Nevertheless, this place is not his legacy . . . but rather this circle here around this fire . . . all of you. You are his beautiful legacy. Don’t ever forget that.”

We share for a long time, anyone who wants to, who can. And each offering recounts a special moment with Grandpa. Not his accomplishments or the gifts given . . . but those moments that were just theirs alone. As they talk, I see him in each face, these sacrificial fathers and mothers, these big kids . . . their work ethic, their love of people, their sense of humor, their devotion to their families, to us.

And then it is time. I thought I was ready . . . but as when I’d held that heavy box before coming down, and now as I watch my grandsons put it deep and begin filling the hole, shovel by shovel, I am undone. My grandsons burying their grandfather. They hand the shovels to their fathers to finish. Piper and her dad lay the big, beautiful stones she’s carried up from the lake, secure them with packed dirt. And we stand in this beautiful spot, wind cold, mountains bright with snow across the water and try to breathe. Silenced. My heart beats, “Thank you Lord. Thank you for this man, our beautiful life together, this family.” Son Rex leans down, “Dad would have loved this.” Indeed, he would have.

Every now and then over all these years I might have been a bit hurt—spoiled as I was by this guy—that he loved his kids as much as me . . . that they were as important to him and what they needed was as important. But truthfully, I didn’t ever get less because of it. It was always more, always anything or everything possible for all of us. What is the measure of a man? I think maybe his wife, his children, his grandchildren can best tell you that.

Go rest high, my Love. I’ll see you soon.