Missing the Patriarchs

I'm turning 28 in 11 minutes. Not a huge deal except that I'm vain enough to sweat the small things... like being almost thirty (I just heard my thirty year old cousins audibly gasping). But, tomorrow is my birthday...on your birthday, your grandparents call. You see where I'm going with this? Yes, I miss my PawPaw. And because I'm prone to introspection and constantly analyzing my inner dialogue I realize that as I get older, so do my children. Carly will be six this year and the last picture I have of PawPaw actually holding her, she was nine months old. She doesn't remember him. Or his truck that was beat the heck up. Or the cold cold creek. Or freezing rain beating you in the back of the beat the heck up truck on the way home from the cold cold creek. Or Harold dropping the watermelon at the cold cold creek and PawPaw chasing the watermelon, not giving a fig about Harold landing on his rear end in the mud. She doesn't remember Harold!
The thing is, I know in my head that we aren't long for this world, that a glorious age is to come and she will know them then. Still, my heart aches for our kids, all of them, who will sit at our knees and learn the stories of our time with them but not get to physically KNOW them. And Carly, who misses her Grandpa every single day. I'm having a hard time seeing through the pain of loss right now.
What I really want for my birthday is a belly full of love, PawPaw with a black comb in his shirt pocket, the Woerner whoop, a resounding blow to my kidneys, his joy in the presence of his great grandchildren and Joel's daddy to walk through the door tomorrow and rearrange my kitchen to HIS liking (even though that gets on my every nerve).
We always want what we can't have (I know I do). What would be truly awesome as birthday presents go is if our Father in heaven finally opened the door and took us all home for a big family reunion...forever!
I wonder if our glorified bodies allow for kidney pounding and if our vocal chords will still be perfectly attuned to the grit behind the Woerner whoop?

Ooh, it's midnight.
I'm 28 PawPaw. I love you and I miss you. You are a legend.
I'm 28 Harold, and I would love the be involved in pointless eschatological rhetoric with you today.
Joel's 27 now and I'm 28 Oldie. We miss you, we love you...and our kitchen is a disaster.