I Miss Him Deeply

I miss my grandpa Byron.

He was a man unlike any I’ve known - imperfect like the rest of us, but truly great, and profoundly influential to me, my nine siblings, and countless others who had the privilege of knowing him.

What set him apart? I could sum it up with one word: care.

He cared deeply about everyone in his orbit - his wife, his kids, his grandkids, his friends, his neighbors, his employees, his customers. Even the stranger on the street corner and the birds and critters that roamed his beautiful farm, The Rocking B.

I remember his tiny shed office, perched atop the hill at the end of the long driveway.

When you stepped across that threshold, you entered another world. The lights were just right. Soft classical music played in the background. Under his pine desk—green formica top, neatly piled with architectural drawings (he was a builder by trade)—were bins of toys where I’d sit and build with K’NEX for hours. The room smelled faintly of homemade soap and essential oils from my grandma’s workspace in the corner. Every object was there for a reason, and they each had a place—and a name. My grandpa loved naming his things. The intercom, the paperweight, the lawnmower, the hammer—they all had fun and memorable names.

I didn’t know it then, but that little office set the course for my future. I can still feel the delight of stepping through that door.

It wasn’t just me. Everyone who visited felt it.

And it wasn’t just the office. It was the whole farm - it was everywhere he went and everything he touched.

The tool shed where every shovel and rake had its spot. The gentle, firm insistence on doing things “the right way,” no matter how “inefficient” my impatient 9-year-old self deemed it. To Papa, how a bin of books looked on the highest shelf in the shop closet mattered just as much as how the front entryway to the farm did.

He cared.

For years, my grandparents lived in a tiny, aging travel trailer while they slowly saved to build a small home. It couldn’t have been worth more than $4,000. But I tell you it was the cleanest, most orderly, inviting space imaginable. Every time you ducked to fit in that aluminum door, you were greeted by soft lamps, gentle music playing, and Grandma Jacque’s joyful presence. It didn’t feel poor. It felt deeply loved.

The farm itself had been a briar-infested jungle when they bought it for dirt cheap in the early 2000s. My brothers and I spent countless Saturdays helping Papa clear brush, build fence, barns, sheds, and finally a home. He taught us how to work, how to build, and most importantly, how to care.

The beauty of The Rocking B wasn’t expensive. It was simply the result of a thousand little acts of love. You might not notice any one of them at first, but you immediately felt that beauty.

—

In my work today, I’ll frequently be in the middle of some task, and all the sudden I’ll remember him and the way he did something. And I stop. I slow down. I do it that way. Or I smile cause I’m already doing it that way from years of habit (and probably a few dozen loving reprimands).

My grandfather was an extraordinarily humble man. He drove an old beater and lived much of his life in that tiny travel trailer. And yet some of the wealthiest, most discerning people in our state—and even a US President—would wait sometimes even years to have him build their personal homes.

To this day, old-time contractors in Waco still tell me he was the greatest boss they ever worked for, and all the ways he treated them well and made them feel like a million bucks.

It makes me immensely proud—and immensely humbled.

I miss my grandpa Byron. He left us almost three years ago now. But the best way I know to honor him is to care, and especially about the little things.

The way you stack the books, or leave your desk, or dig a posthole, or stretch some fence wire.

If this little tribute inspires you to do one small thing today with a little more intention and care, I think he’d be smiling.

But you’ll be smiling too.

It’s incredibly rewarding to do things the right way. And yes—there is indeed a right way.

When care is there, people feel it. And the world becomes just a little bit more beautiful. No, a lot more—because it compounds.

Care is the cornerstone of beauty.

And it will leave a mark on a person like nothing else.

Thank you, Papa. I love and miss you.