I’ve been thinking about death a lot these past few weeks.

My grandfather, whose health had been slipping for a year or so, was, we knew, close to dying. On the morning of January 18, at 85 years old, he did.

As I’ve thought about death and turned it over, inspecting it inside out, I’ve continued to return to two elements I might consider universal truths or themes, however dichotomous those truths and themes may be.

The first of these truths is that death is undeniably sad. A person who has been physically a part of my life, whose blood and genes are a literal part of me, is, physically, no longer here. A person who has been married to my grandmother for 64 years, becoming as much a part of her as a human can be a part of another human being without actually being a part of them, is no longer here. These are sad things to consider, and they are why mourning and grief are such a ubiquitous part of the death cycle. Even Christ, in the wake of Lazarus’ death, wept when his good friend died, despite the fact that He knew He’d raise Lazarus back from the dead.

To weep, to be sad, is human, maybe even necessary.

The other truth — and this is the dueling nature of death — is that there is undeniable beauty in death.

It is death, and the temporary, ephemeral nature of our lives, that provide so much meaning to it. Anything that is infinite is, by rule, not valuable. It calls to mind that scene from Bruce Almighty, when every prayer was answered, and winning the lottery no longer mattered because it wasn’t worth anything, because money was infinite.

Our lives, because of death’s presence in them, are finite, and it is death, then, that makes life so worth living. When someone close to you dies, it invariably causes you to take inventory of your time with that person – in this case, my grandfather — to take stock of the memories, the tiny moments that once seemed insignificant, and suddenly they are viewed with a crystalline clarity.

What arises can be surprising, fascinating, wonderful.

What arises are small things like these.

I remember the way my grandfather drove, hands firmly on the 10 and the 2, thumbs forever circling the worn steering wheel, up and down, up and down, a constant metronome.

I remember the music he played – oldies we hated, then grew to love, and eventually cherish, not because we liked the music, but because of what it represented: Time with my grandfather, time that was usually spent driving to the golf course.

I remember countless rounds of golf at his golf course, Bon Air Country Club. It’s never one round in particular that I think of, just being there, playing, walking the course, riding in carts, jumping in the pool, crushing milkshakes in the clubhouse. I remember the way he’d introduce us to the other fellas, so proud of his grandkids. He was especially proud when we beat him, and the way he’d brag about us felt almost like the reverse of the old “my dad can beat up your dad” schtick of little boys everywhere, flipping it to “my grandkids can smoke your grandkids.” Only he’d never boast in such a manner. He was, simply, overjoyed, witnessing our growth, as golfers, as boys, eventually, as men.

Our growth meant the world to Butch Marsh.

I remember the way he’d exclaim, in his softspoken way, “Allllright!” or “Good one!” or “Way to go, Travie!” These exclamations would come entirely regardless of the shot. Sometimes, I’ll admit, this infuriated me, because in many cases, the shot was most definitely not alllllright, or a good one, or any reason to cheer me on.

But the shot, in obvious retrospect, never mattered.

My grandfather — Pepa, we called him — was out there with his grandsons.

That was all that mattered to him.

There is one specific round I do remember playing with my grandfather, at Baywood Greens in Delaware. I was 15 years old at the time. We were midway through our round, walking onto the tee box of, if I remember correctly, a straight-forward par 3. Suddenly my grandfather screamed “AHH!” and crashed to the ground.

This, of course, was quite a shock to me and the two gentlemen we were paired with, and we just stood there, looking to my grandfather, to each other, back to my grandfather, frozen in a mix of abject confusion and grave concern. Pepa sat up and explained, as casually as if he were explaining that he had just spilled a drink, that he had, in fact, suffered a heart attack. Not to worry. This wasn’t the first time. His defibrillator had gone off, and the force and shock of it had knocked him down.

My first reaction, after suffering a minor heart attack myself, was to call 911, and that we should go straight to the hospital, or at the very least, home. My grandfather wouldn’t have it. He was fine, he assured me — these heart attacks were becoming somewhat routine for him — and would love nothing more than to rest in the cart and watch his grandson finish the round.

He made just one request: Would I, now in possession of the all-powerful learner’s permit, consider driving us home?

That was my grandfather, as cool and calm as a summer sea, even in the wake of a heart attack that literally knocked him down in the middle of a round of golf.

Only once did I see the man lose his temper. We were getting family photos taken — when, I cannot remember — and my grandma wanted to fix up his hair. With as much venom and vitriol as he could muster — this was wonderfully, hilariously little — he steps back and spits, “My hair is fine, Tish!”

We were rolling, my brothers and I, and still do to this day when we think about it.

It was so comical because it was so out of character, and it remains the only time he was ever anything but the kindest, gentlest soul I’ve ever met.

In the days since his death, I’ve had this image of this gentle man and Christ, coming down to tell my grandfather it’s time, that we should go take a walk. I can see Pepa smiling his soft smile, saying, “Well, that sure does sound nice, doesn’t it?”

There’s a common denominator to these stories and memories and moments that have arisen back to the top of my conscience these last few weeks. They all occur, every single one of them, in these small, borderline mundane moments we might otherwise label as garbage time — the way he’d fall asleep on the couch after Christmas dinner, Ravens games on Sundays, bike rides down the Monkton Trail, building wooden race cars in the basement. But the garbage time, I’ve come to learn, is where the magic is, where memories are made, where the truly significant occurs.

Grandparents, and my grandfather in particular, are the kings of garbage time.

When I think about those memories, about the way my grandfather stood out in those small moments, it makes me rethink how I father my own children. It nudges me to be more present with my own kids. It has allowed me to see the immeasurable value of those normal, everyday breakfasts, the repetitive bedtime routines. It makes me want to get down from the couch and lay on the floor and play their silly games, because maybe that’s what my son will remember: Me, horizontal with him on the floor. Maybe he’ll remember the make-believe towns and cities we build in our front yard sand pit. Maybe my daughter will remember not some epic vacation we took, but the goofy accents and voices I use when I read books and tell stories, or how I sing my terrible made-up songs at the dinner table.

My grandfather is no longer physically here, this is true.

Unlike Lazarus, he will not be physically raised from the dead.

But in many ways, he already has.

He will live on, generation after generation, through the impact he has made on his son, my Uncle Steve, who is the most generous, outrageously kind man I know; through the impact he made on his daughter, my mom, the most optimistic human on planet Earth.

Like soil that requires fallen leaves and the decay of winter for the next season’s spring, death begets life.

And that is a beautiful thing indeed.