One of my favorite memories of my Grandaddy is sitting next to him in church. As time would approach for the offering collection, he would reach in the inside pocket of his suit coat, pull out his wallet and remove the bills. One for him, one passed down the pew for me. Without a word, I learned the joy of giving, of sharing with others.
Grandaddy often acted without saying much. He did not offer his opinion or advice unless asked, so every time I got an unexpected, "I'm proud of you," it meant the world. I never once heard him complain, even in his last days. Those days, he struggled for the strength to speak at all, but always asked, "how is my good friend," referring to my daughter, his firstborn great-grandchild.
In a few days, his good friend will be baptized. In the same church I where was baptized, in the same sanctuary where I grew up sitting beside my Grandaddy, the same room where we told him good-bye, in the same place where I still feel most connected to his sweet spirit. I wish he was alive to sit beside me, but I think he will be there. If he is, he will be proud. I will think of him, not only during her baptism, but also during the offering, as I always do, and I will offer my gratitude for knowing a love that was not just for his lifetime or mine-- a love that outlasts-- a love that has been passed down.
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