There is an old khaki safari hat hanging on the hook in the mudroom of my grandparents' house. It has seen days working in the sun and evenings on the porch looking out across the Salt Lake Valley. It has seen the ocean in California and the mountains of Montana. It has seen cathedrals, bridges, cafes and castles across Europe. It has been lost several times, but try as it may, could never stay lost for long. Somehow, that hat has always found its way back to the man underneath it.
Grandpa.
My dear grandfather recently bid farewell to his beloved hat, and to us, as he set out on the biggest adventure of all. That week, I went with my boys to visit him in Salt Lake City. I sang to him.
It was almost hard to look into his eyes, knowing that in a few days they might not be looking back. He had been sick for quite some time and we all knew his journey in this life was coming to an end.
Later that week, I took my youngest boy, sister and brother-in-law up to Salt Lake City to visit him one last time. We waited in the parking lot for my mother and father to meet us at the nursing home before heading inside.
We quietly padded down the dimly lit halls, past the cafeteria and sitting room, and across the hallway to where he lay sleeping.
I slipped past the curtain and saw my grandpa — my sweet, thoughtful, smart, hard-working, devoted grandpa — lying there.
But he wasn’t.
My grandpa had left a part of himself behind. He had hung up his hat, and was finally, finally laid to rest.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandpa over the past few days. I know that death is a part of life and something we will all go through at one time or another. The person who has passed has no choice but to move on, while we, the ones who still live, struggle to do the same.
A few nights later, we went around the room and shared a favorite memory of my grandpa. Mine was many years ago, when I was a young girl baby-sitting my little brother and sister. I was getting ready to put the kids to bed when I looked out the window and saw an unrecognizable van parked in the driveway with its lights off.
In my 11-year-old mind, I just knew it was an intruder.
With my hands so shaky I could barely dial the number, I called the first person I knew I could count on: my grandpa. He came rushing over with his flashlight, and after some searching we discovered the van to be the vehicle of the friends who had gone on the date with my parents that evening.
After laughing (and crying) in relief, my grandpa pulled me onto his lap and told me something I’ve never forgotten: “I’m so proud of you,” he said.
What? Proud of me? Why was he proud of me? I was a terrified wreck!
“I’m proud of you for having the courage to call me when you felt uncomfortable," he said. "I will always be here for you. I love you so much.”
I felt an overwhelming sense of peace at his words. My grandpa came to me when I needed him, without question or hesitation. That’s how he always was.
Now there’s a stone in the Ogden cemetery with his name carved across the front. But just like that empty hat hanging at home, I know the man isn’t under that stone, either. What comfort that thought has given me.
My grandpa is with me in spirit, in my memory, in my heart, forever. I believe that someday I will be able to see him again, and I hope he wraps me in his arms and I will smell his grandpa smell and he will say, “I have always been here for you. I love you so much.”
I love you too, Grandpa. Till we meet again.
Carmen Rasmusen Herbert is a former "American Idol" contestant who writes about entertainment and family for the Deseret News.