Stay Low, Ben: A Tribute to Grandpa Jerry

Some people shape your life in quiet, steady ways—they take root in your heart and never leave. 

For my husband (and our entire family), Grandpa and Grandma Post (aka, Jerry and Sandy) have been a steady presence, a safe place, and a source of unconditional love through every season of life. More than grandparents, they’ve been guiding lights—and the kind of role models whose lessons you remember long after you’ve left their house.

When I was pregnant with our first child, Jerry made his preferences very clear: “I want a boy.” Not for most of the stereotypical reasons—except that he hoped the Post name would march on. And when we told him we were indeed having a boy, Bennett, he was ecstatic. But the victory dance was short-lived. “Now I want a girl.”

And sure enough—along came Kora. “You guys did good,” he said. “Exactly what I asked for!”

That was Jerry. Funny, matter-of-fact, and somehow always the boss (only rarely having to raise his voice to restore the calm). 

Jerry and Sandy have been our everything over the years—they’ve been caregivers, snack providers, cheerleaders, and sanctuary. When daycare would’ve stretched our budget, they stepped in without hesitation. Our kids are who they are in part because of the Post house—a place filled with patience, candy, cowboy belt buckles, and so much love.

And while I spent an embarrassing amount of energy ensuring no one would call our son “Ben” (because his name is Bennett), Jerry did what Jerry does. “Stay low, Ben!” he’d yell when Bennett crawled under the coffee table. “Watch your head!”

I never corrected him. Honestly, it kind of became perfect.

Jerry has always been the reassuring voice in the room. “You’re a good mom,” he’d tell me nearly every visit. “You’ve got a good family. Those kids are lucky.” And even now, as I write this with a lump in my throat, I know that in many ways we’re the lucky ones for having him in our lives.

He loved Elvis—even shared his birthday with The King—and swears that’s where he learned to dance. He bowled. He mowed. He joked about drinking Crown Royal (even though I never witnessed him have a drop). And he always—always—started phone calls with, “Brandon, it’s Grandpa,” like we didn’t have caller ID.

My favorite memory? The days after we moved into our first house. Brandon had explicitly told Jerry and his dad not to move our washer and dryer while he was at work. So of course, they showed up with a trailer, Jerry wearing a floppy-eared hat, warming up with side-to-side stretches and elbow wings like he was prepping for the Olympics. They scratched both appliances. Brandon was unhappy. I was in tears—from laughter.

And now, the sacredness of these moments is hitting a little harder.

After getting a call that things were taking a turn, I sat on the couch and started to cry. And our six-year-old, Bennett, quietly asked me what was wrong. When I told him that Grandpa was very sick and would soon pass away, he leaned his head on my shoulder and said, “Me too. I’m going to miss him, too.”

The next day, Bennett sat on the couch and stated, out of the blue, “I’m worried about Grandpa passing away… what if he has a job to do?” We told him that Grandpa had worked hard his whole life, and his job here was almost done. “But what about mowing the lawn?” he asked. “What if Grandma doesn’t know how to do it?”

We promised him that as a family, we’d figure it out. That helping Grandma would be part of our job now.

Before our last visit, we reminded the kids that we’d need to be calm so Grandpa could rest. “Because he’s sick?” Bennett asked. “Yes,” we said. “How can we help him?” he asked again. We told him the best thing we could do was show love. To Grandpa. To Grandma. To each other. And without skipping a beat, he suggested, “We should put up a picture of him on our wall so he’s never forgotten.” (Just like in the movie, Coco—shout out to Disney for helping us teach the hard life lessons.)

That’s the kind of legacy Jerry leaves behind. A legacy of love. Of care. Of showing up.

And so, when we arrived at the house for our final hugs, just like he did as a toddler, Bennett walked through the door, found a truck, and gently placed it in Grandpa’s hand. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t planned. It was a soft, wordless offering. An instinctual act of love, and Jerry was still holding onto it when we left. 

So yes, Jerry. We’ll stay low. We’ll stay grounded. We’ll stay connected. And we’ll make sure that picture goes up on the wall. Because family doesn’t fade. Not when it’s this deeply rooted…thanks to you.