It was strange, walking into the house to see his grey chair empty, or to see someone else nestled into it as we sat around and reminisced about his life. His was such a constant, consistent presence in all of our lives. Sitting in that chair just inside the backdoor to watch the game, or with me, the Thanksgiving Day Parades (because I’m not really into watching sports on TV), or just to talk, or do a puzzle or crossword, or to sneak a piece of chocolate or a cookie or two when Grandma wasn’t watching.

I can’t recall when I figured out he was my step-grandfather. I’d never known my dad’s father, who passed before I was born, and Grandpa was always there, loving us all just like we were his own, and there were a lot of us. At some point, I must have put together that he had a different last name than me, and a different first name than daddy’s father. It didn’t matter. He chose us and he loved us, and that was what we needed. In more ways than I had ever realized.

When mom told me Grandma wanted me to speak at the funeral after Grandpa’s son, on behalf of all of us Monhollons, I didn’t realize just how much it would mean to me, I was just focused on what I would say. The next few days talked to my family and thought about what I would say to a crowd full of people honoring the life of such a heroic, admirable man. He led the kind of life that made it easy to talk about, easy to laugh about, easy to celebrate, easy to remember, and impossible to forget.

And the things I learned only deepened my respect and admiration of the man who’d joined our family almost thirty years ago. I knew about the Purple Heart, but I’d never seen it before, or known about the Bronze Star and all the other honors or about the capture of Rome in the war, when he was younger than I am now. I knew about the pancake breakfasts at his church, but never realized he’d been there since the church was founded and never missed a Sunday mass. I knew he was Irish thru and thru, but didn’t know much about him growing up in New York. I knew he still did the family’s taxes, but not that he still had clients up until the very end. I knew that his house was full of warmth and love, but not that his three children had grown up there, in the very rooms we’d filled so much of our own lives with.

What I remember is how he was always exactly what you needed, when you needed it, no matter what. I remember the birthday celebrations and the bowling and the laughter. And the patience and the giving and the love, the wide-stretching, all-encompassing love that was so real and firm and true, it could only have come from a strong faith that never once wavered, even when the cancer was discovered and the chemo weakened his body and the family struggled to accept it all so quickly.

Looking back on his life, I’ve found myself looking to my own life these past few days. Asking myself if I lead the kind of life that would be easy for people to talk about, to celebrate, to remember. And impossible to forget.

Each day you’re given is an opportunity to be the person who will make others reflect on their own lives, their character, their choices, their attitude, their actions, their heart, their love. To make those around you better than they would have been without you. And that’s the ultimate honor, when it’s all said and done. That you’ve lived the sort of life, every single day, that made you a consistent, beautiful, life-changing addition to the world.

Think about the kind of life you lead. Choose to be your best, not just for you, but for everyone you know. Laugh, indulge, celebrate. Give, serve, teach, share.

Most importantly, love. Love patiently, kindly, unfailingly, hopefully, firmly, fully. Every day. No matter what.