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By Kathy Burns
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I stood with the others gathered at my father’s graveside, listening as the minister repeated those familiar words of the 23rd Psalm. I was flooded with memories centred around the father who meant so much to me.
As all the pictures of the past tumbled through my mind, I found one that kept coming to me over and over again. It was the one of my father kneeling by his bed - his head resting in his hands - praying. And the thought that pressed so heavily on me was that he was no longer here to pray for me.
I realised that all through my life he had spent time every day praying for his children individually. I couldn’t begin to number the hours he’d spent on his knees for me alone. And all the extra time for my brother and four sisters.
Because my parents had been missionaries in India, all of us had been sent away to boarding schools. Being separated by great oceans wasn’t easy at times. And I suspected it had been harder for my parents than for us.
But at those times when homesickness hurt us, or when grades discouraged me, I knew that Mum and Dad would pray for us when they had their worship, and later in their individual prayers - and what a comfort that was. Although each of us had been taught to pray from a very early age, there’s something very special about the prayers of parents who care so much for you.
Rather sheepishly I recalled the times as a young child that I’d been impatient with Dad - for if I asked him a question when he was praying, it seemed like the longest time. And I couldn’t imagine what could be so important to keep him praying so long.
While living in India, Dad had won the love and respect of so many that over the years he’d come to be called papaji by almost everyone. The name suited him. It was a term of respect, and when he returned to Australia, many people came to use the term.
As I grew and had to make life’s big decisions, I knew I was not on my own. I remember returning home from Europe once with a “problem heart.” My father came to meet me for the last leg of the trip. As we flew home together I knew he was hurting for me - and praying for me.
Later, when I married, my joy was his. I knew his prayers had been answered, as they had been for each of us who’d left to establish our own homes and families.
When I had a daughter, Anita, I knew that she was added to his prayer list, along with his other grandchildren. And I saw his love grow for each of his children’s children. It was so wonderful to watch. And I loved him more because I knew his concern for the future of my precious girl was taken to God in prayer.
My father had come to visit me, as I was pregnant again and due to have my baby any day. I wanted my Dad to be with Anita while I was in hospital, so when he arrived on Sunday evening, there was great excitement.
Anita at last had her long-awaited papaji. He was here to play with her Lego, read her stories, walk in the paddock, pick corn and tomatoes - and do all the things that grandfathers do with their three-year old girls.
At tea we discussed babies - what we might have. A boy? His name would be Robert. A girl? We’d call her Donna. It was so good to have Dad with us. We were all so happy.
We knew my father had been battling a terminal illness for some years. He’d already fought for his life several times, but had always come out on top. Now that he was here for the birth of my second child, surely nothing could go wrong.
But on Tuesday I noticed that Dad was very tired. I asked if he was feeling all right; did he think he should see a doctor?
That night I tiptoed into his room to put something on his bed, and there he was kneeling in prayer with his Bible opened in front of him. I wasn’t to know that this was the very last time he would kneel to pray.
On Wednesday morning I rushed him to the little hospital near home. Tears filled my eyes as I saw an ambulance take him away to a bigger hospital in the city where he could receive more specialised care. Then I rushed home to phone Mum and other members of the family.
I spent a few hours in the city that night by his side with my husband and daughter. He was concerned for us; he wanted us to go home and rest. He looked better and I told him Mum would be with him in just over an hour, and that the others were coming too. We prayed together, then left.
Dear God, don’t let papaji die before our baby is born.
The phone rang, 11:30 pm. It was Mum; she was there with Dad. He wasn’t going to make it. I asked her to tell him my secret. I’d seen in a scan that my baby would be a girl - he would then know her name would be Donna.
When we walked into his room he was barely able to talk. I sat on the bed beside him. He took my hand in his then pressed it to my stomach. He smiled. I knew he knew my secret. He managed the word Anita. We put her on the bed and held her hand.
We watched the clock. Would my sisters from Sydney make it in time?
Finally they arrived. He recognised them. My sister held her four-month old boy, Daniel, close to him. He smiled - the biggest, most beautiful smile, then managed a few words: “Take care of him.”
Dad wanted to write something. It was hard for him as his pen was slipping, but because he always used the same words whenever he was going away, my Mum could recognise them: “See you later.”
Two days after he was buried, Donna was born. I couldn’t believe that they had missed each other by only three days.
I now consider the greatest gift my father ever gave me, or any of his other children, was given on his knees. Hours of prayer. I know there is only one way I could repay him - that’s by being ready with my family to see him again.
I’m sure his first words to me will be, “Where’s Donna?”
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