It was not a surprise.

91 years old.
A hospital stay just a week before.
Frail little body.
A waistline that had shrunk in spite of all measures to maintain it.
A walker.
Urgent care.
Prescriptions.
No longer driving.
No longer walking his dog.
More urgent care.
Assistance taking a shower.

We watched him fade.

And yet, mere hours after my sister’s wedding, it was a shocking blow to get the text:

They’ve called in hospice.

How could this be?
The man who had witnessed every year of my life was losing his.
And we were losing our anchor.

I had already lost more than anyone else knew. I had already died a thousand deaths before I arrived at his on January 10th.

My grandfather died.
And we were there for every step of the way.
We accompanied him on his departure, walked him, sang him, loved him, stroked him as far as we were allowed to go, until he left our arms and made it safely to those of Jesus.

We, who had been pastored by him our whole lives, were in the final days, his pastor.

Our time at that house was hard, but it was holy.
There was a heartbroken peace that pervaded it.

It was a complete surprise.