So when he died, I was obviously sad but not devastated. I was more sad for my dad, who was losing his dad, and for my grandma who would lose her partner of over 60 years. I was surprised, then, to see such an outpouring of emotion on facebook from cousins who seemed to be legitimately devastated by his death. I felt like it competely shook my whole reasoning that he just wasn't "that kind of grandpa." Apparently, for some of my cousins he was. The next few days I really struggled with this, feeling guilty for not being more upset, wondering if I was maybe just more private than others, or if they really did have better relationships with him.
My only conclusion was that maybe the reason I didn't have a closer relationship was because I didn't try to. I only lived in Hope (where my grandparents live) until I was in 7th grade, then I moved away from Indiana right after high school. Since I was 13, I've visited my grandparents' farm maybe once a year or so. I would always see my grandma at church, but since my grandpa wasn't a member, he wasn't there. As a result, I probably only saw him a handful of times in the last few years. My two strongest memories of him actually come from two visits I made out there in the last few years, and both came because Jaime was here visiting and I was showing her around while he was here. Both times that I was there, though, he was more than willing to come wherever we were to chat. Maybe if I'd gone out there more often, I would have had a stronger relationship with him.
Going into this funeral, I was carrying a significant amount of regret over not having made the effort to have a closer relationship with my grandpa. Fortunately, the whole weekend left me with a feeling of gratitude and hope. I felt like I got to know my grandfather better those few days, just from everyone else's stories, than I ever knew him while he was here. It was such a pleasant experience to hear about what a respected and hard-working man he was.
As we drove in the processional to the cemetery, I was overcome at the respect and honor that was shown by people who did and some who maybe didn't even know him - the old, weak pallbearers who struggled to carry his casket to the hearse, the policemen who blocked the road so we could get through, the cars who pulled over on the side of the road as we passed, the men from the navy who came to honor him graveside, and the men and women from my parents' ward who showed up to help with the funeral and put on a luncheon for our 120+ family members.
Almost everyone who spoke at the funeral focused on how hard of a worker my grandpa was and how honest, generous, and diligent he was. The stake president spoke, and he shared a quote about how you can judge the character of a man based on how he responds to hard work: some turn up their sleeves, some turn up their noses, and some don't turn up at all. He explained that my grandpa was the kind who would turn up his sleeves, no matter what was asked of him. I was struck by this legacy that he'd left behind - a legacy of hard work - and I wondered if I'm continuing that legacy. When things get hard, do I work harder or do I just give up? I've thought so much about my job and how difficult it is, and I've been looking forward to when I can quit. I'm ashamed to admit that a lot of the time, I feel like just showing up to work at all is good enough. The Shoaf legacy, though - the legacy that I should be living up to - is not about good enough. It's about the best possible. It's my privilege to be a Shoaf, and after hearing about my grandpa's life, I'm resolved to be a better representative of what he stood for.
