My son fondly remembers his great-grandmother and how she asked to see him one last time while on her deathbed in a hospital.
To think that even as she prepared to leave us and go sleep with the saints my grandmother wanted to see him and pray for him brings tears to my eyes.
That memory came to mind Tuesday as we counted the days we’ve been on earth while driving toward dropping my son, 10, and daughter, 6, off at the Christ-based summer camp they attend.
I have no way of knowing this side of heaven if that is one blessing brought about by her prayer.
But back to that jeep ride toward camp, as my daughter approaches her seventh birthday to occur this Saturday, roughly about 8 a.m. (my son asked) we started counting her days on earth. I’d miscalculated due to forgetting leap years have an extra day.
My daughter will have spent 2,556 days on earth come July 12.
My son will have lived 4,017 days out of his mother’s womb Nov. 21.
Maybe half of those days, I stopped at one point to talk with God about them. I continually ask God that they come to know his son Jesus and his saving grace (I believe my son has – unsure about my daughter).
My grandmother prayed for her kin every day, says mom, as did papa when he was with us.
Grandma’s gift of service showed this despite her quiet moods and occasional crankiness toward her daughters and spouse.
As I parted with my son this morning I told him “just think what it was like to know that somewhere every day someone was talking to God for you. Pretty cool, huh?”