After my grandmother died, I wrote the following in March of 2006:

My other uncle, who had not been attending church for some time, recalled when he spent his last moments with Grandma. The others couldn’t hear what he was saying to her, but she kept grasping his hand at points. He divulged that he was praying with her, that he would start going to church again. He said this in front of everybody, and I was happy for him and for Grandma. Sometimes we don’t know why people suffer so and we don’t know the Lord’s plans until things pass, but maybe Grandma had suffered long enough for her son to get it into his head that he needed to receive the Word and Sacrament. She would have volunteered for the duty, and maybe she had.

That uncle has now joined the church triumphant. He had been in poor health for a while, but the mesothelioma claimed him quickly.

I wasn’t as close to this uncle, but I remember him taking us on a tour of the county Sheriff’s Department, where he was a deputy. He always had the police scanner on, even at his home, even when he was no longer able to serve that duty.