This week has been a tough one. I don’t often cry – I used to think of it as a sign of manly strength, but as I matured, I began to wonder if something was wrong with me. But in the past week, I’ve cried long and hard on four separate occasions.
Wednesday, I was reminded of my friend, Elliot, who was lost to suicide our freshman year at UNO in October 2019. His birthday is in May, and for whatever reason, on Wednesday, I was overcome with sadness and broke down in tears. Wednesday afternoon, I visited his grave for the first time and sat by the grave as I poured out my feelings to Elliot. Just when I thought I’d finished my one, good cry for 2026, the news hit me like a ton of bricks.
At 6pm, my dad shared with me that his mom, my grandma, my Nana, died in open-heart surgery on Wednesday evening. I had been carrying the anxiety of her surgery all day, and as I processed the news, it hit me that she is gone.
As the funeral plans materialized, I made arrangements to be back in Goodland, KS, for the week. On the drive down to Goodland yesterday, on a stretch of remote highway, I was clocked speeding by the Kansas Highway Patrol. As I pulled over, I thought through my story – “I’m on the way to my grandma’s visitation in Goodland at 3.” But I never got a chance to tell the trooper. He gave me my ticket, and all I could do was laugh. They had me dead to rights. I was speeding. He had been driving the other way and caught me. If it had been a speed trap, I probably would have felt some anger, but he had caught me the sporting way. Oh well.
We arrived in Goodland and made it over to Nana’s house. We’re staying here this week with my aunt and cousins. Every time I’ve ever visited before, my grandpa or grandma had met us at the front door (usually late at night, because my family wasn’t known for leaving early and making good time). But this time, we went to the front door, let ourselves in, and there was no Nana or Shep to greet us. The house is full of her memories – her handwriting is on whiteboards and sticky notes, her visors lined neatly on hooks by the front door, all of the kitchen must-haves in the drawers and cabinets where her 5’0″ frame could reach them easily.
I’m sitting here in the dining room where I have years of happy memories, listening to my grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles talk about the family business, community happenings, and the things happening in life. I can almost smell my grandpa cooking breakfast in the kitchen, short-order cook style, and hear my Nana ask how we slept.
I could always count on Nana and Shep being awake at sunrise, which worked out well for my young sleep schedule, disrupted by light and the time zone change. This morning, I was the first one up and about. I sat in the living room, next to Nana’s chair, and read quietly. I thought about how proud she said she was of me. About how excited she had been to meet Jillian, my fiancée (now wife). About her joy when she found out that Jillian had been offered a full-time teaching contract. About the trips she had taken to cheer me on for National History Day, speech and debate, and football.
Yesterday evening, we did a private family visitation at the funeral home. Nana’s hands were cold, and the funeral home smelled distinctly of what I imagine to be the Febreeze “Comforting, Clinical, Floral Extravagance” scent. I cried over the sound of I’ll Fly Away, Coming Home, and Amazing Grace (all country music renditions).
Grief is a funny thing. I hated country music for a long time, but in that moment, it was comforting. Nana had picked that music out as a comfort for her family. She had thought it through, and it did. It was comforting to me.
Today and tomorrow will be spent in the house, seeing a revolving door of family members before the funeral on Thursday morning. We’ll look through old photos (back when photos were printed and picked up in a little packet from the drug store). I’ll hear stories about my Nana and Shep and the way they loved their family. And I’ll sit in this house that is filled with reminders of her.
I feel sad. Loved. Nostalgic. Quiet. And I remember the ways that she loved and cared for me. I know she is overjoyed to be back in the arms of Shep and worshipping in the presence of Jesus. I’ll miss her. All of us will.
But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep.
1 Thessalonians 4:13-14
A Profitable Read 