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She kissed him goodbye knowing he would remember her tomorrow.The morning sun fell gently through the lace curtains, spreading golden light across the room. The air carried the faint scent of frankincense and oil—the kind Bishop Elijah always used to anoint his hands before Sunday service. Now those same hands, once steady and powerful, rested quietly on the quilted blanket that covered his knees.Naomi stood beside his chair, her heart pressing against her chest. She had never told him she loved him before. Not in all her thirty-two years. She’d shown it, yes—through visits, phone calls, cooking his favorite meals—but the words had never passed her lips. Somehow, with him, silence had always been enough. But not today.He looked at her with those wise, clouded eyes that once pierced through crowds and called weary souls to repentance. The years had softened his face, but there was still something regal about him—like a king who had fought many battles and now sat at peace in his throne room, waiting for Heaven’s summons.“You heading back home, baby girl?” His voice was gravel now, low but full of warmth.“Yes, Grandpa. Just wanted to check on you before church.”He smiled faintly. “You still sing in that choir?”She nodded. “Sometimes. I mostly help the youth now. Tryin’ to keep them in the Word.”He chuckled. “That’s my girl. Keep them close. The world’s loud—but God still whispers.”The words settled into her heart like dew on morning grass. That was his gift: turning ordinary sentences into scripture.lNaomi’s eyes wandered around the small room—a quiet museum of his faith. A framed photograph of her grandmother in her Sunday hat. A Bible so worn its spine leaned like a tired man. A bottle of oil half full on the nightstand.She remembered sitting in his lap as a child while he prepared his sermons. He’d hum old hymns between verses and tap his foot softly, saying, “You gotta feel the Word before you speak it, Naomi.”Back then, she thought preaching was easy—just words and rhythm. But as she grew, she learned his ministry had been born out of pain: losing his first child, working the fields from dawn to dusk, and watching his community struggle through poverty and loss. His faith wasn’t built in pulpits—it was forged in heartbreak.When Naomi got older and drifted from church, he never scolded her. He’d just say, “I’m still covering you, baby girl. Even a prodigal child has a home.”And now here she was, standing in that home again—his living room that had always felt like a sanctuary.“Grandpa,” she said softly, sitting at his feet, “you ever get tired of carrying everybody’s prayers?”He laughed, the sound wheezing but pure. “You don’t carry ‘em, you lift ‘em. There’s a difference. The weight’s the Lord’s, not mine.”She smiled, tears welling. “Sometimes I think I forget that.”He reached for her hand, slow and shaky, and placed it between both of his. His palms were rough—hands that had baptized hundreds, married dozens, and buried just as many.“You’ve always had a soft heart,” he said. “That’s both a gift and a cross to bear.”Naomi nodded, biting her lip. “I guess I got that from you.”He shook his head. “No, child. You got that from God. I just tried not to harden it.”The room fell into a peaceful silence. The clock ticked. A bird sang outside. Time seemed to pause, holding space for something holy.Naomi leaned closer, studying his face—the lines that told a lifetime of prayers, the gentle eyes that had once made entire congregations weep. She realized then how fragile he’d become. His breath came slower now, his shoulders thinner beneath the robe he still insisted on wearing.“Grandpa,” she whispered, “you ever feel afraid?”He smiled faintly. “Not anymore. Fear’s just faith that forgot who God is. I’ve had my moments, sure, but the Lord’s always brought me back.”Her voice trembled. “I don’t know how you stayed so strong.”He chuckled softly. “Oh, I wasn’t always strong. There were nights I sat right in that chair crying ‘til dawn. But grace—grace found me every time.”Naomi felt a lump rise in her throat. She wanted to tell him everything—how his prayers had carried her through her divorce, how his voice echoed in her dreams the night she almost ended it all. But instead, she just squeezed his hand tighter.He seemed to read her thoughts. “Don’t hold it in, Naomi. Speak your heart. The truth’s what heals.”Her breath hitched. She’d rehearsed this moment in her mind so many times, but the words still caught in her chest.“Grandpa…” she whispered. “I never told you this before, but… I love you.For a moment, everything stilled. The ticking clock. The rustle of the curtains. Even the sunlight seemed to pause.His eyes widened slightly, then softened with tears. “Say it again, baby.”“I love you,” she said, her voice breaking.He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips, his touch trembling but sure. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear that,” he said. “Love don’t fade, Naomi—it just deepens.”Tears streamed down her face. “You’ve always known, though, right?”He smiled. “Of course. But hearing it… that’s like the final ‘Amen’ to a long prayer.”His words wrapped around her like a benediction. He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the window where the sunlight kissed his face. “I’ll remember that tomorrow,” he whispered. “You mark my words—I’ll remember.”His breathing slowed, but his spirit felt alive, radiant, full of peace. Naomi knelt beside him, resting her head against his arm, and for the first time, she wasn’t afraid.When the sun rose the next morning, the house was quiet except for the echo of distant church bells. Bishop Elijah had gone home to glory in his sleep—Bible open beside him, Psalm 91 underlined, and the faint scent of anointing oil still in the air.Naomi stood in the same spot she’d kissed him goodbye, her tears falling freely. On the arm of his chair lay his old handkerchief, embroidered with one simple word: LOVE.She smiled through her grief. “You remembered, Grandpa,” she whispered. “You really did.”And though the room was still, she felt his presence—warm and steady, like the hand that once guided her through every storm.As she walked toward the church for his homegoing service, she looked up at the sky glowing gold and whispered, “I’ll keep the garden growing, Grandpa.”Somewhere in the wind, she thought she heard him hum that old hymn once more:“if it had not been for the Lord on my side, tell me where would I be, where would I be.”And she knew, deep in her soul, it was true.

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Grandpa’s Hand

AnointedD

Demetria Mitchell

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Grandpa’s Hand

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Demetria Mitchell

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