My grandfather died at 28 years old, right at Christmastime—December 28, 1948. He was younger than my oldest son is now. His daughter (my mom) was five years old; his son (my uncle) was two.
His God-focus through terminal illness is astounding. He left
a lasting impact on the flock he pastored. And his life intersected mine long
after he was gone.
In June 2016, I faced my second breast cancer. My friend
Tracy, who had survived a brain tumor, gifted me Rose From Briar, Amy
Carmichael’s letters “from the ill to the ill (p. 13)” because it had meant so
much to her in her own trial. It met me in my darkest place and carried me
through the days before and after my surgery like no other book than the Psalms.
Written from India in 1933, Brier’s poems and prayerful words are still so
pertinent that I pass it along to others who need its peace.
In 2018 we moved to a new home and I unpacked a box of my
grandparents’ books. Buried in the stack was an old blue volume with a water
lily embossed on the cover. I turned it in my hands. On the spine, gold letters
said Rose from Brier—Carmichael. I gasped. Opening it carefully, I read handwritten
on the flyleaf: “Presented to Lloyd Smith by the Senior Class of Baptist Bible
Seminary, 1942.” The next two pages were filled with signatures of his college
classmates, some who had become well-known pastors or professors. Every one added
a special Scripture verse. My heart overflowed. The very book that ministered
to me had ministered to my grandfather in his own fight for life. I bowed
myself and wept.
When my Mom battled uterine cancer in 2021, I gave the book
to her, saying, “I think your daddy would want you to have this.” When I faced
a total hysterectomy and possible uterine cancer in 2022, I asked to have the
book back. Although I had my own paperback, underlined edition, I wanted to
hold the hardback my grandpa had read. I kept one copy by my bed, and the other
in my devotional basket so that whenever I needed it, it would be close.
As I read the familiar words again, I was struck with the
profound insights Amy Carmichael had written almost 90 years before. They
soothed my soul, brought me to the foot of the cross. Even after my own pathology
came back benign, I kept reading. I wanted to preserve the raw emotions that
had thrust me to the heart of God. I didn’t want the book to end.
It has sat unopened for months, the last two chapters unread.
Today, as I ponder Grandpa Lloyd’s untimely passing, the last chapter titles
seem especially fitting: “Thy Calvary Stills All Our Questions” and “A Door Opened
in Heaven.” Even though he left this earth 75 years ago, his legacy lives on.
And I’m ready to finish the book.
