My Papa

There are so many things that I never seem able to speak out loud. 

Charles Everett "Bo" Thompson left this life for his eternal home on November 15, 2020. He was eighty-eight years old. 

I can't pinpoint my earliest memories. Papa picked me up every afternoon when I was in elementary school, and I remember that his radio was always set to AM 750. We would talk about life while we were in the car, and Papa would always (always) jokingly ask if my boyfriend had all of his teeth. I remember the day that my Dad showed up in the car line instead of Papa. My grandfather had a ruptured appendix and was in the hospital. I remember crying when I overheard how sick he had been because I was afraid he wouldn't be able to play with me anymore. My fears were unfounded, and when we did flag football in middle school Phys Ed, Papa taught me how to throw a football. I learned how to shoot hoops in my grandparent's driveway, and I can still visualize Papa teaching me how to do a layup. 

My grandfather's specialty was installing ceilings, but he generally worked in construction most of his life. He once built a wooden "car" that the grandkids could pull to the top of the hill and "drive" down. We changed direction by pulling on a rope. Rolling down the hill never got old, and I think Papa enjoyed the ride as much as his grandchildren. 

I could usually hear my grandfather before I saw him. His voice could carry halfway across a building, and he always had a story to share. I have never met anyone who seemed so at ease talking to other people. He never met a stranger, and he would eventually come around to his favorite topic: the Bible. Papa actively pastored for more than fifty years. He seemed like a walking encyclopedia of scriptural knowledge. If I had a theological question, he had a Bible verse or a book for that. I will never forget sitting on the front pew with him as a child, feeling special in my frilly dress, and listening to him sing "Jesus Saves." I have always marveled at how scripture seemed so woven into every aspect of my grandfather's life. 

I remember the two of us taking a field trip around Saint Joseph's hospital when my Dad was having heart surgery. Papa was jittery just sitting and waiting for news, so we went to find the helicopter. I adored adventures with Papa, even if we were just tracking down coffee in a hospital or looking at birds at the funeral home. 

When my grandmother got sick, our family started having Monday night dinners at my grandparent's house. Papa would cook meat, boxed macaroni, instant potatoes, and canned vegetables. He was proud of himself for learning to cook in his seventies, and I honestly don't know what made his cornbread so good. He said it was the skillet. I learned a lot about servitude by watching my grandfather care for my grandmother. She was bedridden for three years, but I never once heard him complain. 

A week after I accidentally poured boiling water down my leg, Papa bought me a pouring lid boiler so that I wouldn't hurt myself again. I feel like that's the best story to end my ramblings because it perfectly captures a giving nature. I'm not at all sure what I'm going to do without someone that I have doted on for as long as I can remember. Someone who has been so influential in my life. So steady. So constant. I feel extremely grateful to have been given thirty-five years, but it will never feel like enough. I'm even more grateful that he was able to remain independent. He was standing in the pulpit two days before he went to the hospital, and I know he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. It is so fitting that Papa left for heaven on a Sunday morning. 

"Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." James 4:14

"But as it is written, 'What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him.'" 1 Corinthians 2:9