Happy Birthday, Grandpa

My mom has that crooked smile. So does my brother.

My grandpa passed away last August. Yesterday would have been his 97th birthday. And though I intended to write this just after the funeral, a lot of things happened all at once and I got so caught up in getting from one day to the next that it didn't happen until today. But I don't think Grandpa will mind me writing about him on his birthday instead.

Grandpa was a farmer. He was also a redhead, a father and a faithful member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He was a cowboy and worked his fingers to the bone. He married Grandma three days after she graduated from high school and, until she passed away, I don't think I ever saw the two of them apart. Ever. And I love what that says about them and their marriage.

Grandma and Grandpa had six kids. My mom is his namesake. She has to repeat and spell her name for people all the time, but she never seems to mind. She loves that she's named after her dad and she tells people the story all the time. "Lylene. My father's name is Lyle."

Grandpa and I played checkers a lot when I was little. I distinctly remember his constant reminder: "You can't move backwards." I knew that was a rule, but I was relatively certain that Grandpa moved backwards all the time. It wasn't until years later that I realized he was only moving backwards from my perspective, and I still laugh to myself about my frustration.

Grandpa took me to a Daddy-Daughter Date in our ward when I was nine. For some reason my dad couldn't come, and I remember getting all dressed up to go out with him. I suppose I should take back what I said earlier—that day, I did see Grandpa without Grandma. But only for that hour or two.

Grandma, Grandpa and two of my aunts. My mom was the next baby to come, but not until a few years later.

At Grandma's funeral, Grandpa told his bishop, "My family is priceless to me." The closer Grandma and Grandpa got to the end of their earthly lives, the more apparent that became. It didn't matter what they did for a living, what clothes they wore or how much money they had. Only two things mattered: the gospel and their family.

Ryan and I moved to Provo last April and we stopped by Grandpa's house as we passed through. We had a nice visit with Grandpa. He asked about Ryan's grandparents, who he's known for years and always loved. He asked about our move to Provo. For part of the visit, we didn't say much—we were just together. And Grandpa held my hand for a really long time.

Lyle and Fern Scott family, taken two years before I was born in 1986.

When we left, Grandpa walked out on his back porch (which took a lot of exertion and worried me terribly) and watched for us to drive down the road behind his subdivision. When he saw us, he smiled and waved until we were out of sight. I knew it was difficult for him to get on the porch and stand and wait, and that meant more to me than I think he'll ever know.

At Grandpa's funeral, my uncle said, "Today Mom and Dad are claiming the blessings promised them in the Salt Lake Temple," and that still gets me. They lived together in life—most of the time in the same house. And today they're still living together. That's why we love the gospel. That's why we love the temple. Because in the end, it really is all about family.

I love you, Grandpa. Happy birthday.