Living memorial for my hero, the family legend

I used to say nothing could kill my Grampie. By the time I was born, he'd nearly drowned, survived a plane crash, and fell off multiple roofs (including one fall at about 85 years old). He wreaked havoc on woodlots with a chainsaw, stacked wood so high he had to use the shovel on a tractor to reach the top, hunted moose with fierce determination--and in general lived the recklessly daring life of a manly man born in the first half of the 20th century. I haven't yet heard all of his hilariously impressive deeds, but he's the father of 10 children and a brother to almost as many siblings, so there are a lot of people around to tell a lot of stories. And in the 90 years my grandfather lived, he really LIVED all 90 of them. It was cancer that finally got him.

When I was little, Grampie always greeted us at the door of our church with a warm "Well! Amen", a hearty handshake, and a pink peppermint. During the service, we could often hear his low, drawn-out "aaaaammeeeeen." Whenever he told a joke, which was often, he'd laugh almost silently, mouth in a wide open grin, eyes sparkling, and slapping his knee gently like he just couldnt quite handle his own funnies. He was a generous and hard-working man, even well past the age a man should work hard. A roofer by trade, he volunteered his hands and his McGyver-esque skills in any capacity, no matter the inconvenience. His was the personality of Biblical heroes.

He wasted away so slowly, for about four years, but he knew he was dying. He started hugging instead of shaking hands. He told me once he was proud of me, and he had tears in his eyes.

At the very end, the family gathered often. We'd sit in the kitchen, and later around his hospital bed, and we sang hymns for him. He was exhausted, could barely speak, but he breathed out his "amen," and "praise God," and "thank you, God," almost as often as he breathed in. And finally, when we told him we loved him, he stopped saying "amen" and "God bless you" and he told his children he loved them too.

I didn't know that a dying man could be so inspiring, that his death could be so beautiful.

When he passed, my employer sent a peace lily to the funeral home, and it then came home with me. I've never been good at keeping green things alive but I've nurtured that plant so diligently I feel almost maternal towards it. It's my living reminder of the example my Grampie set before me, and of the family name bestowed on me. It's been two and a half years.

The lily hasn't blossomed in about 9 months, and I've been ridiculously upset over it. So, the reason for this post is: there are two blossoms on it tonight and I'm trying not to cry for relief and gladness. See? This is the biggest one: