My grandfather passed away last week, on Thursday. He was 91 - lived a rich life. Not a fancy, extravagant existence... but he worked hard and did good work.

He was a farmer by trade, but actually did most of his work in construction. His fingerprints are on the skeletons of many of the houses of his hometown (Lake Odessa, Michigan). He even laid the brickwork for the very funeral home his service was in.

I flew home Friday evening, attended the services on Saturday, and flew back to Arizona on Sunday morning. The worst part of all of this was seeing how hard it was on my own father. He spent several hours every day with my grandpa in the home, feeding him, playing him music, just being an amazing son.

And dad was the only child that went to the cemetary to see his father buried. Everyone else said "Oh, it's too cold. We're just going to go back to the house and eat, okay?"

When I left from the airport... dad wouldn't let go. I can't forget that moment, and even though I try to stop myself... I find myself lost in tears and how much I miss him and my whole family.

There are times when I hate being without my family out here. This is one of them.