(10). He is one of the reasons I’m the writer I am today. Although I only had Papa eight and a half short years, he is certainly one I give credit for honing my writing gift. When I was little, he would always put me on his knee and tell me stories from his childhood. The favorite one was of Skippy, his loyal hound dog who warmed his feet on cold winter nights and was the best dog in the world, until a mad dog bit him, and they had to shoot Skippy. Yeah, I begged to hear that one over and over although I cried through it most of the times.
Or we’d go sit in the little swing below the house, and he’d make up stories. They were usually all about a wonderful, sweet, kind, beautiful Princess named Krista. And in the stories, Princess Krista was always doing good and helping others. His favorite story was about an ogre of sorts called a “Whatchmacallit” that was shunned by society, but who Princess Krista(of course!) made friends with and brought it out of its shell. He taught me not only about storytelling, but how I should treat others,especially those less fortunate than me.
(9). Papa was a writer himself. Among my dad’s possessions, I came across stories Papa had written about growing up. They’re homespun stories in the vein of Lewis Grizzard and Garrison Keilor. He would have had some amazing stories to tell of his time in the war, his faith, and his family.
(7). My favorite story of Papa is one of faith. When my dad was in
(6). Papa was a preacher, and he was the pastor of both
(5). Papa was a stellar athlete. He won a basketball schorlship during the Depression to
(4). He had a tender-heart. Things touched him, bothered him, and worried him deeper than they did other people. He had a sensitivity that touched people. He couldn’t stand to see people or animals mistreated. When I was little, there was a hound dog up the street that was skin and bones. I named it Big Dog, and everyday we would feed Big Dog and try to fatten it up.
I know I’ve inherited my tender-heart from Papa. Sometimes it’s both a blessing and curse.
(3). Papa had a wicked sense of humor. He loved to tell jokes, sometimes not the kinds you’d expect from a preacher!!
(2). Papa loved his grandchildren. He even had a tag on the front of his car that read, “Let Me Tell You About My Grandchildren”. My cousins, David and Stephen, were twelve and eight when I was born, so they had a lot of years being spoiled rotten by Papa, but he wasn’t burned out on spoiling by the time I came along. Papa was the type if you wanted to get up at 2 in the morning and play Little People, well then, you just got up and played Little People!
(1). From time to time when the ache from missing him gets so hard I can’t breathe, a feeling will come over me. It’s as if he’s saying, “I’m still here with you, and I love you and I’m proud of you.” The way I felt about Papa influenced the relationship with George Lester and Sarah in The Road to
He held out his arms, and she fell into them, weeping uncontrollably. Since the day he’d died, she’d dreamed of the day when she’d feel his arms around her again. There was a divine aura of light all about him, and within the shining light was heavenly love.
“I can’t believe it’s really you! I’ve missed you so much!” Sarah cried.
“But I’ve been with you all this time.” George pointed to her heart. “I’ve been right here.”
Tears streamed down her face. “I know you have. I felt you and your prayers. They were the only things that got me through sometimes.”
“That’s what they’re there for, darlin’. When you love somebody, you bottle up prayers along the way, and when they need them, they’re poured out like anointing them with oil.
One day, I’ll have this reunion with my grandfather. It won’t be on earth, but somewhere beyond the skies.