We paid tribute to my grandmother on a sloppy Thursday night in Salt Lake City. The snow had been steadily falling since before we had arrived that morning, and it was clearly becoming an issue as our rental car crawled down the highway.

We sat in silence for awhile. My father stared ahead, concentrating on getting us to the church in one piece. My step-mother stared out her window at the passing billboards. Next to me, my step-brother read his book, and behind him, my brother sat silently.

I was numb. I had only been to two funerals before, and as every funeral is different, I was nervous. The only family that I had seen so far were my uncle Wayne, his wife Pat, and Beth, one of my four cousins. I didn't know what to expect from the rest of the family, although I had heard that my aunt Julie was a mess.

I started thinking about Julie and how remarkably strong she had been through the difficult things that had come her way, and I began to realize how incredibly difficult the next few hours were going to be. My thoughts wandered to my grandfather. This man had just lost his wife, his partner, the mother of his children, the love of his life. I'd never seen him get emotional before, and I wondered how he would be when we got to the church. Would he cry? Would he be okay? I had no idea.

We arrived at the church soon after. We greeted Julie and my cousin Daniel, my cousin Ben, and finally Grandpa, who was calm and composed, as I should have expected. Daniel, Wil, Eric, Ben, and I congregated towards the center of the narthex near a table filled with photos of my grandmother -- her as a girl; her as a young woman alongside a very young version of my grandfather; a family portrait of the two of them with their three children, my father's tiny hand enveloped by his father's; and finally, the family portrait that all fourteen of us had made this past summer.

That's the moment it really hit me. My grandmother, my beautiful, elegant, wonderful grandmother, was dead... as in, she wasn't standing somewhere behind me, laughingly scolding my grandfather for joking too loudly, beaming at her children, or marveling at her grandchildren. The woman who epitomized grace and class, the woman who cared about every living creature, the woman who never stopped thinking of others, was gone.

I don't know how I managed to make it into the sanctuary, but the moment the prelude ended, I began to cry. I cried for the loss of a grandmother. I cried for the loss of a wife... a mother... a friend... but most of all, I cried for the loss of this incredible woman. I began to think it wasn't fair, and why couldn't God have spared her? My tears turned into bitter ones, and I became selfish and angry. Just then, as if by divine coincidence, the pastor mentioned Jesus not resurrecting everyone in the Bible -- only three, including Lazarus, testing our faith in what we truly believe about him resurrecting our loved ones in heaven.

After the sermon, I felt a little better. He talked about her incredible light and warmth, and I knew that she had lived the life she was intended to live. She touched so many people. She had lived her life well and left an impression upon her loved ones that we will never forget.

The service ended and the family congregated in the narthex, taking turns holding each other. My father gripped his boys tightly. Daniel and I grasped each other, blubbering into each other's shoulders how much we loved each other. Wayne took his father's hand and said, "She was a great woman, Dad."

The reception was a blur of sugar cookies and handshakes, hugs and anecdotes, tears and smiles. I looked around at the room full of people here to honor my grandmother, and I was filled with a sense of her content. She was done hurting, done fighting off the awful disease that consumed her for so long. She lived to see her three children grow into three wonderful adults, and to see her seven grandchildren begin their own journeys into adulthood.

Julie approached me as we were leaving, her nose crinkling just like her mothers'. "Grieve well," she said, smiling through her tears. "This is a great loss."

The ride back to Wayne's house was as quiet as the falling snow. I stared at the twinkling stars and knew it was her smile that was lighting the snow-covered mountains that night. She was happy. She was home.