He was 94, the father of seven and the love of my mother-in-law’s life. A second marriage for both, they met at the cemetery, each visiting the headstones of their first spouse. He was sharp as a tack, well-read, wise beyond words and one of the kindest people you could ever have the honor of knowing.

I met Henry about a decade ago. I loved his sense of humor. James and I were just dating then, but meeting his mom and Henry only made me love James more. They were everything you hoped an old married couple would be. They finished each other’s sentences; conferred with each other before making a decision, no matter how small; and they spent all day, every day, together. Happily.

Over the years, I was routinely amazed at all that Henry knew. Not just what he knew, but what he had experienced in his lifetime, what he had accomplished, what he had learned. Every time we visited a new book (or three) would be on the stand by his chair in the living room. Never once was it a light read. Almost always it was political. Sometimes a biography or historical novel. He built ships. Scaled replicas of the great ones. War ships. The Titanic. Piece by tiny piece, he spent years crafting, painting, gluing and positioning. He built anything he needed. A gopher trap? He built one. Need a hose reel that will hook onto the tractor? He built one. Need a pulley system to run tubing in the pole barn? Any need they had, Henry would research, plan and solve on his own. We always went north with questions in mind. Any issues we ran into on the farm were questions Henry would already know how to solve. Too many conversations to count around here ended with, “We’ll ask Henry. He’ll know.”

Having been raised and lived through decades upon decades of necessity, he knew farming as though he’d never left the fields. He surely thought we were crazy for getting cows “just for fun” but he never said as much to us. He loved to hear about each one of them, especially Elliott, whom he called, “Scotty”. He shook his head and chuckled when he asked about what kinds of chickens I had ordered last year. He wanted to know if I had layers or meat chickens and I went on and on about each of the 8 breeds I had picked out for their beauty or egg color. Even during our last conversation he was still asking me about my chickens. He delighted in the home-grown things we would bring him. He requested our homemade bread, homemade grape jelly and James’ maple syrup. He also loved the cookies we took up with us and had one a day for breakfast with coffee for as long as they lasted. He cooked us something different every time we went up there and could remember what he had made and what he still wanted to prepare the next time.

This man, this wealth of knowledge more significant than the set of encyclopedias from my childhood; this remarkable, easy-going man became the loving father my husband never had growing up. He was quick with compliments, hugs and “I love you’s”. He loved us as if we were one of his own. And we, in turn loved him.

And today, after months of deteriorating, after several weeks of hospice and round-the-clock care by family, this morning, surrounded by all of his children, he asked for a cup of coffee, even though he couldn’t begin to drink it. And he told his wife that he wished she were going with him and then, when every one left the room, he quietly passed away. Just as Henry would. Never wanting to be a bother.

After all the cancer has put him through during the last several months, this should feel like relief. After all the stress that James’ mom has been though, all the worrying, this should feel like a slow exhale. After 94 years of a life lived in tough, hard times, staying sharp to the very end, this should feel like a life to be celebrated. And it will be.

But, for today, my heart aches. I am so deeply sad. I am more heartbroken that seems reasonable for a man I was related to only through two marriages. But I loved Henry. And I love the way he loved my husband. Like one of his own.

And this is no small thing. To be loved by Henry is a very big blessing indeed.

He is already so deeply missed.