Granddaddy

My granddaddy was a good man. He wasn't really my granddady, but my great grandfather. Since he raised my dad, I never thought to call him anything else. His hands were calloused and rough, reminding him of the years tending his farm in the flat land of Oklahoma. Even after he left the farm, he kept a garden of his own of cherry tomatoes and cabbage. He walked five miles until the day he passed away and loved his wife stronger than any love you read about in storybooks. And everytime I went to see him, he'd let me ride in the back of his pickup truck to his pond where we'd fish together. I never caught as many as he did, but he always encouraged me. He had this stash of crayons and coloring books for me and my sister and would always put our scribbles up on his refrigerator. I miss him. It has been years since he has passed, but I miss him today. He walked with the Lord. I sang "How Great Thou Art" at his funeral. I've been seeing my Father in Heaven a lot like my granddaddy lately. My Father is love. My Father encourages creativity. My Father cherishes His relationship with me. My little scribbles... my inabillity to catch a fish... all my silly imperfections and short-comings... He delights in. How great you are, Father.