Prayers Carved in Cedar and a Papa's love

Some folks preach with words. My papa preached with cedar, river water, and a twinkle in his eye. He didn’t always go to church, but he loved the Lord the way a man loves breathin’ steady, sure, and without ever makin’ a fuss about it.

He built his own house after he retired, strong as the hands that hammered it together. And the this post title "Prayers Carved in Cedar" is because he made sure each of us granddaughters had a coffee table he built himself — out of cedar so rich, you could still smell the heart of the tree when you leaned in close.

In the middle of his home sat an old family Bible, pages soft from years of turnin’, margins filled with notes and names, the history of us all stitched together between Genesis and Revelation. He might not have read it out loud every day, but he lived it every day — in the way he loved, and the way he gave.

Holidays were somethin’ special at Papa’s house. We’d gather up — more kids than chairs, more food than table space. Papa would fry up eggs over easy and bacon so crisp you could hear it snap and of course grits. Granny handled the biscuits — fluffy, golden, and always hot from the oven. He never wore his teeth — kept ‘em tucked right there in his front shirt pocket like they might come in handy later. Truth was, he didn’t need 'em. He could eat anything without ‘em, grinnin’ the whole time, and we grandkids thought he was the funniest man alive.

Come Christmas, we’d about lose our minds over the peppermint stick. Not the little ones they sell now —this was a big ol’ fat stick of peppermint, long enough to use as a walking cane if you needed to. We’d gnaw on it for hours, our mouths red and sticky, laughin’ and sneakin’ extra pieces when nobody was lookin’.

After supper, my dad and his two brothers would pull out a deck of cards, and Lord help us — the games would last for hours. They’d get loud sometimes, slammin’ down their hands like the fate of the world depended on a round of rummy, but underneath it all was nothin’ but love. Just three brothers, raised up right, holdin’ on to each other the best way they knew how. And when the world got too loud —

Papa found his peace on the river. He’d take us grandkids out in the boat, sun high and hearts happy, teachin’ us how to cast a line and wait patient for the tug. We’d come back roasted from the sun, peelin’ ourselves off those hot seats, but we didn’t mind a bit. Those boat rides were better than any ride at the fair. And sure enough, before we left, Papa would load us up with fish — “Catch of the day,” he’d wink, as proud as if he’d reeled in Moby Dick himself.

Looking back now, I know what I didn’t see clear as a child: Every nail he drove, every fish he

caught, every egg he flipped, every peppermint stick he handed out — it was a prayer. A way of sayin’, “I love you,” without ever needin’ to find the words. “Train up a child in the way he should go…” Papa did that. Not with sermons. Not with lessons written on paper. But with a life carved straight from the wood of faith itself.

His love didn’t come wrapped in fancy words. It came in cedar and sawdust. In cracked hands and river mornings. In peppermint sticks and a house filled with laughter. And now, every time I bow my head, every time I smell fresh-cut wood or see a river shimmerin’ in the sun, I know he’s still there. His prayers didn’t fade. They carved themselves into the very bones of who I am. Because some faith ain’t written down — it’s lived. And some prayers don’t echo off steeples — they settle into the heart… and stay there. Like prayers carved in oak.

Miss you Granny and Papa