Yesterday was my Papa’s birthday. I miss him much. We stopped by my grandmother’s for a minute, while we were there she pointed out to me that it was Papa’s birthday. I had forgotten. Forgotten his birthday but not him.

I was reminded of him yesterday morning as I read my Bible. No particular verse or scripture brought him to mind it was his name written inside the cover that made me think of him. 6 years ago I received a little Pocket Bible for Mother’s day only a few weeks after I got it we had a guest speaker at church. I don’t remember who he was or what he said but I remember he told us to write a name in our Bible, a name we would commit to praying for daily. A name of someone who needed salvation; I wrote the name of my Grandfather.

I did pray for him, daily, I labored over him in prayer, interceding on his behalf. I pleaded for God to soften his heart for him to understand the love that the Father had for him. I cried countless tears.

A few years later another Mother’s day came and with it came a new Bible. I put away the old one for the new. The new one didn’t have his name but I still remembered, I still prayed.

The last time I saw him he was in the hospital. It was a Wednesday night I left the kids at church and drove over for a quick visit. They told me he wouldn’t recognize me, that it wouldn’t make a difference if I went or not. I went any way; I wanted to pray for him. I walked in and was taken aback when I saw him lying there. My big strong grandpa, not so big and strong in that bed; I broke down, I wanted to run. As I turned I let out a short breath of a prayer and headed for the door. Then I heard him “Jami, Sweetie, come help me. Come help your papa” I went to his side and asked him what I could do, anything, I would do anything. “Help me honey, just help me” I didn’t know how, I didn’t know what to do. All I knew to do was pray. I wanted to ask him if I could pray for him but I was scared. I don’t know why, if it was anyone else I wouldn’t have been but for some reason I was scared. As I struggled with words a nurse came in and said she needed to do something. I went and waited in the hall. I slid down the wall and sat on the cold hard hospital floor. I sobbed and I prayed. I looked at my watch and realized I was running out of time, it would be time to pick up the kids soon. The nurse walked out, I looked up at her face and recognized that she had been there both when Kaleb and Charleigh had been born; ironic.

I turned to go back in, ready to see him again. I had built my self up, convinced my self I was going to go in there and ask Papa if I could pray for him. I had rehearsed what I might say. I was ready. Or was I . . . When I went in he was asleep again. I walked over to his bed I was going to pray anyway. I held his hand but I couldn’t speak. All I could do was look at him. With his eyes closed he started talking, at first his words were unintelligible but soon I started understanding what he was saying. “Oh God I need you, Jesus, Jesus, help me I need you.” Now I know he’d been praying a lot more in the past year. But each time we talked he said he just wasn’t sure if he believed in all that “Jesus” stuff. Earlier the nurse had said he’d been saying all kinds of things in his sleep, most of it not making any since. He was in crazy amounts of pain and she attributed most of his words to the medication. Just then as he spoke I prayed that he understood what he was saying, I prayed that he did believe. But I never did bring myself to speak. I prayed quietly beside him until it was time to go. On my way out to my car I met my Grandma (otherwise know as MeMe) I turned and walked her back into the hospital and down the hall and right back in to the room I had just left. We talked for a minute then I had told her I had to go pick up the kids, I went back to Papa’s side, kissed him and told him I loved him, I told him I would pray for him then I left the room for the last time. I didn’t see him again.

Why couldn’t I be bolder? I let fear of the rejection of a dying man hold my tongue. For some time later I was burdened with regret, I should have done more, I could have done more. Why didn’t I do more? I could have tried harder, prayed harder. Later I realized that burden is not mine to carry. I was not Papa’s savior, Christ was. I have to be at peace with his passing, yes I could have done more, I could have been a better witness but now all I have is the hope that perhaps in his last days he did come to know Jesus. My hope is that before he died he believed in his heart that Christ had died for him, my hope is that before he lost his life he gave it to God.

Recently I pulled out that old Bible, it’s smaller than the new one and I thought it would fit nicely in my purse. Yesterday when it was time to read my Bible I decided to just grab the little one out of my purse instead of lugging the giant one with my journal into the living room. I slid the little leather tab out of its pocket and opened my Bible, it opened to the page with Papa’s name. I stared at it for a while then prayed that God would give me strength to speak his word boldly. I prayed that I would be a witness for his love in all I do.
Then I went and wrote his name on the inside cover of my new Bible.  The
name used to remind me to pray for my Papa, now it will remind me of so much
more.

Happy Birthday Papa Bill.