On my trip to Tennessee a couple of months ago, Dad gave me Mom’s journalings. They aren’t a proper journal. She was wildly inconsistent in capturing her thoughts and only began the attempt at the age of fifty-seven. They are a jumbled assortment of stapled pieces of notebook paper, hotel notepads, sheets torn from a spiral notebook, and even a single entry that was carefully typed.
Mostly, she captured the events of the day or notes from a sermon. There are only occasional times that she opened up and shared what was on her heart. It is those glimpses into her soul that bring her alive again if only for a moment. Two of those entries are letters she wrote in 2010 and 2013 to her maternal grandfather.
The letters are the only time she used that format and are very similar to each other. She provided no insight into her motivation for writing them. The first letter is below but has snippets that I borrowed from her later note. I’m sure she would forgive me for the edits. If anyone wants to see the original, handwritten versions, a link is provided at the bottom.
Here is the letter, written by a sixty-seven year old grandmother to her grandfather, who had passed away forty-eight years earlier.
Dear Papa,
It’s been so long since we talked. But in my mind, it seems only a short time. I will always remain in my memory that child of 7, 8, or 9 sitting beside you on the pew alongside the deacons at Old Saline Baptist Church, a church with a 100-year old history probably even then.
You helped take offering and took part in the service but always came back to sit beside that insecure child who looked up to you so.
I can hear you now singing “The Old Rugged Cross” or “I Won’t Have to Cross Jordan Alone” and for those moments I was secure, sitting beside this man bigger than life, who loved me enough to bring me to church with him and let me sit beside him with all the other deacons, would keep his hand on my shoulder as the service concluded and I felt like somebody. I can’t remember the sermons but I’ll never forget being present with you in worship.
I’ll always be thankful to you and Mama as well that you raised my mother in that little church, in those traditions so that even when you no longer walked this earth with us or sat under the sweet-gum tree your daughter, my mother, carried on the traditions and love for our Lord. I sat beside her for the next 12-14 years before I married with that same feeling of love and security.
How many lives you formed through generations with your gentle, sweet spirit, humor that resonates with me today, love that spoke so loudly in your care for Mama who could not share with you for those last years of your life.
Thank you Papa for the heritage you left, the example you lived for us to emulate. I pray it won’t die in my watch because I fail to pass it along to our grandchildren.
I regret that our grandchildren won’t have the same memories somehow. Times have changed and though many things are better those relationships are a real loss. The greatest consolation is that I’ll cross Jordan sometime in the not so distant future. I can’t wait to hear you sing The Old Rugged Cross again one day. I’ll recognize your voice before I see your face.
Love you, Papa,
Jan
After reading this letter, I set it down and imagined my mom as a little girl. I was sad that she was insecure and didn’t always feel like she was “somebody”. I hoped that I made her feel the same way that Papa did, but worried that I abandoned her to insecurity while I focused on myself. God spoke to me in that moment and told me that it was OK. This letter wasn’t my mom’s story, it was Papa’s.
Papa died six years before I was born. Mom never shared a lot of details about her growing up years, so he has faded into obscurity in the four generations that followed him.
His name was Melvin Dison. If you google his name, you can find a picture of him as a young man, learn that he lived from 1890 to 1962, and that his wife’s name was Myrtle. That’s not a lot. Solomon lamented as much thousands of years ago.
Melvin came to understand his place in history though. In the eyes of a little girl, he reflected the heart of The Father. He accepted responsibility in his church family. He sat on the front row and worshiped passionately. But most importantly, he embraced a small child to make sure that she knew that she was loved.
God is our Papa, and he makes us feel the same way.
The fortunes of billionaires like Bill Gates, Jeff Bezos, and Elon Musk will disappear after a handful of generations. Melvin’s riches however are still growing. His smile still radiates in my memories of my mother, or when I see my aunts Kay and Pam. His embrace lives on every time that Preston hugs his granddaughter Emery. His voice speaks through me when I worship.
Melvin understood enduring greatness that should guide us today. When we accept Jesus, His spirit comes alive inside us. We walk this earth as an embodiment of who He is. Our testimony invites others and God’s love spreads across space and time. Almost sixty years after he died, Melvin reminds me of the power to change lives that is in me.
Each of us may only be a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. But never believe that our time is without impact. It shines in the eyes of a little girl who became a grandmother herself and generously poured out the same love she received. It guides me to do the same.
Thank you, Melvin.
The original letters are captured in pictures available through the link below. If you have memories of Melvin, please share them in the Comments.
Oh Jimmy, I feel like I just took a trip to my own old country churches in the precious older ones who carried my path. Thank you
Your Mom’s story about her Grandfather was really heartwarming. I could visualize everything she wrote in those words. As you said, what he did has impacted your family for generations.