A Memorial

Phillip Lee Keeter

9/20/23 - 7/17/08

I'm feeling sad today. Papaw has been gone a year. I wonder what he's spent his last year doing in heaven. I can only imagine...

Right after Papaw died, Randy wrote the most beautiful article about his life. It meant so much to me and to our family. I want to share this piece again as my own memorial to Papaw.

FAMOUS LASTING WORDS

We stood at the door, somewhat uncomfortably. The kids and I. Not sure what was needed but ready to help. She was at his bedside and this time he was responding well. This was the whole reason we came on this 11 hour trip... so she could see him one more time. Papaw had lived a full life, but it seemed so sudden for his health to take such a sharp downward turn.

Tracey had not been prepared and we couldn't let him go without saying our goodbyes. She looked at me and the kids, then back to him. She had tears in her eyes. “Papaw, look who else is here over by the door.”

He looked our way. “Randy!” he exclaimed, much to our surprise. He seemed sharp as could be, a stark contrast to the few days before when he had been unresponsive and even sometimes delusional. “Well, look here!” He pronounced each of the kids' names, struggling with the youngest. He waved me closer and groaned something I couldn't make out. “He wants to talk to you.” she said. I moved to the side of the bed. I tried in a few phrases to express my gratitude for all he's been to all of us but my words failed. He struggled to say what he was praying for in my life. He mumbled some words of compliment. Then he held his arms out. “He wants to hug you,” she told me. I leaned into him. He tried to give one of his signature hugs. It struck me how weak it was. I began to have flashbacks of all his visits with our family.

He had been the kind of grandfather that joy just poured out of. Every time you saw him after a long absence there was a strong embrace. It didn't matter if you felt like it. Not one of those slow polite hugs either. When he hugged you, it was big. It would squeeze the air out of you and the love into you. Most importantly, it was genuine. It came from a real, caring, spirit-filled vivaciousness. Sometimes, it seemed as if he was the embodiment of the abundant life. It was nurturing no matter how old you were (and this from someone who only married into the family). Now, in some ways, he seemed the opposite, but with little glimpses of the patriarch we knew.

Some who knew him long before I ever did will never forget the image of him in his truck shooting through traffic, weaving between lanes or risking a turn as the light hit red. Others might recall how he would only buy the best cuts of meat at the deli, but he was stumped as to how to open a frozen can of orange juice. He could show up at your door with no warning and when he was determined to do something you were hard pressed to stop him. Perhaps, the most telling attribute was his willingness to share the gospel to anyone at any time regardless of the circumstances. He wore his faith on his sleeve as they say. It was out there where everyone could see, where a faith is supposed to be when it's real. To be with him was to be confronted by truth. He would move himself into situations where he could be used by God to minister to those who didn't know Him. All of these characteristics will be cherished but, at least to believers that knew him, the latter most of all.

It looked like we were going to have closure now. He was alert and it was time to take advantage of it. It was a very unsure moment since this was the last of the four days she had visited him and we were preparing to leave town. How long should we stay? We shared words that didn't really do justice to our emotions. There was some silence and times we weren't sure he was aware. Maybe it was a good time to go. Suddenly, he seemed to get his second wind. He had something else to say.

He nodded his head as if to wave the kids closer to the foot of the bed and moved as if to try and sit up a little more. Then he grabbed my hand and said, “Let's pray.” He was holding me with one hand and Tracey with the other. He paused, then in a strong, passionate but sincere voice he spoke, “Father, we come before you again, asking you to...” His words trailed off. We looked at each other and waited. Physically drained, he had fallen asleep.

There was a period of stillness, then he was with us again. He was trying to be in the moment but losing the fight. More pleasantries were exchanged and subtle goodbyes. He didn't seem sure about what had happened. We weren't positive either. We began to leave. The kids began crying starting with the oldest, the younger not really knowing why. It wasn't the kind of ending I would've written, but then again, somehow it was alright.

As we left the nursing home, we tried to comfort the kids and each other. They started asking us questions like “Why can't he get better?” As we shuffled into the car and drove away, I tried to make sense of what we were experiencing. I felt uneasiness but a sense of peace as well. The clutter of my thoughts began to clear into a few realizations. First of all, I thought to myself, you can't wait until someone is in this condition before you tell them how wonderful they are.

We always marvel at how fast life goes by but you also never know how quickly someone can lose their health. Sometimes it's months or weeks after you thought they were completely fine. We need to tell each other what we want to say while we are able to communicate and while they are able to understand.

Secondly, I was aware that, when he had been struggling to speak, I knew exactly what he was trying to do and what he would have been telling us if he had the strength. I could guess what he was trying to say. I can tell you what he wanted to get across in that moment. If he could have, he would've been talking about God's blessings. He would have mentioned his desires for each of our lives and what he expected from us. He would have prayed for God's leading in our lives and that our needs would be met. He would have described how much his family meant to him. His priorities would have been what they always were, that we would be growing in Christ. His thoughts would have been spiritual. I really knew this. Given the few words he actually spoke when we were there, it's really telling that I inferred that much.

It occurs to me now that it was not really important that he didn't have an emotional final message for us before he died. His life had actually been a coherent message spoken over and over. That sermon will be proclaimed and acted out loud and clear in our memories over the years. In retrospect, it's really OK that he didn't have strong last words. He had lasting words. He will always have lasting words in our hearts. That's what we'll remember. I'm changed for the better having known him and the ministry he had in my life and the life of my family will live through generations.

One day, when my life is down to a uncertain number of days and my energy is spent, I don't particularly want my descendants gathered around my deathbed waiting with baited breath so that I can dispense final words of wisdom that I consider a priority for them to remember. It matters less what happens in that moment.

Now that I think about it, I know what I want.

Before I pass away, and I try to speak but my tongue isn't moist, and I gasp for oxygen but my lungs are deflated and my brain is aching from trying to put a sentence together, I want my family and friends to smile at each other knowingly with a tear in their eye because they know exactly what I mean. They know how to finish my prayer. They know the words I'm reaching for. And I want them to be words of hope and love and grace. Words of life. I want them to remember the words and actions they've seen. I want the legacy that Papaw has.

I want famous lasting words.

I can't express how touching this article was for me - and so healing! Even now as I read it tears are flowing as I remember the man who was the embodiment of unconditional love. My sisters and brother were his only grandchildren. He called us his "babies." Even the week before he died, he told his sister, Phyllis, that he wanted to see his "babies." That's all it took. We dropped everything and went to see him. Trisha and Betsy got there first. The next day I arrived. It was late. I was so emotional about going to see him. Betsy went with me. I walked in the room and was overcome with how different he looked. He was thinner. He was weak. But he saw me and smiled.

The next day Betsy and I were with him again. He was in and out of sleep a lot. Sometimes when he spoke he didn't make sense. But sometimes he did. At one of those times I wanted him to know how special he was to me. And I told him God had been good to him. He said, "Sing it to me." At first I was shocked - you mean REALLY sing it?? He waited for me expectantly. With as much confidence as I could muster I sang, "God is so good, God is so good, God is so good, He's so good to me." Betsy cried quietly. But at that moment I knew he was content. He always loved to hear us sing. And to be able to do this one last thing for him meant the world to me.

I'll never forget those precious moments with him. He died 2 weeks later. I think I can imagine what he heard when he got to heaven...."Well done, my good and faithful servant."