A quiet reflection on grief, memory, and the moment I knew I was home.
After losing my grandfather at sixteen, I carried the weight of silence and sorrow for years—until one day, decades later, I stepped into a Catholic chapel. This is the story of a garden, the Crucifix, and the quiet voice that called me home.
When my young life seemed to be on life support, my hope came from my Grandpa and Grandma.
If you had the great ones in your life, you know exactly what I mean.
They saved us from the chaos—
parents fighting, parents divorcing… and the tragic end to my mother’s life by suicide when I was eight years old.
So, when I lost my grandfather at sixteen, the blow was crushing.
He’d had a stroke, and a few days later he was able to come home.
I was living with my grandparents at the time. When he got back from the hospital, he asked me to help him get to his garden.
He always had a big garden—one I didn’t always appreciate.
When I was little, I refused to help pull weeds. He once chased me through it, weaving in and out of the corn stalks.
But this time was different.
That walk—his last—must have been the hardest one he ever took.
It wasn’t doctor-recommended. Might’ve even been what did him in.
But I helped him get there.
And when we arrived, he had me lower him down to the earth.
Not just dirt… this was sacred ground.
On his knees, shaking a bit, he slowly reached out and picked one weed.
That was it. One weed.
Then he said, “Take me to the house, Richy.”
The next day, he was gone.
A couple days later, I found myself alone with him in the mortuary.
I was sixteen and had just gotten my driver’s license. I drove my grandfather’s car to go be with him. Only he and I knew.
It wasn’t time for the viewing—still eight hours away—but I wasn’t about to wait.
I talked my way in. I would have broken glass to get in.
I stayed with him all day.
Just me and Grandpa.
Open casket.
Silence.
But the story doesn’t end there.
It moves forward—23 years later, to Logan, Utah.
One day, I was moved—called—to walk into a Catholic chapel on the campus of Utah State.
“Richy, come on in.”
The door was not locked. I listened. I walked in.
The chapel was empty—and it was beautiful.
No music. No sermon. No crowds.
Just sacred, candle-lit silence.
I walked slowly between the pews…
Maybe ten feet from the altar…
Twenty-five feet from the life-size Crucifix above.
There was a familiarity to this space.
I went from sixteen years old to forty.
I knew this place.
I had been here before.
I didn’t yet understand the Crucifix, but I was glad it was there.
I didn’t need words.
Didn’t need to understand everything.
I just needed to be there.
I was prompted to be there.
To be still.
To spend the rest of the day with God.
Oh yes, I knew this place.
That’s the beauty of a silent Catholic chapel.
Go there to simply be.
Sit.
Be quiet.
Let the stillness speak.
Because the One who loves you most is there—waiting.
Just like He was for me.
Never be shy to walk into a Catholic Church.