Grandad and I took this picture together 5 years ago on Thanksgiving week.
“Grandad’s Hands,
He preached in Church each Sabbath morning.
Grandad’s Hands,
He would sing off-key so well.
Grandad’s Hands,
Used to issue vital warnings.
He’d say, Phillip, don’t you run so fast,
Might fall on a piece of glass,
Might be snakes there in that grass.
Grandad’s Hands.”
Derived from “Grandma’s Hands” | Take 6 | Beautiful World (2002)
On paper, the whole family's in town for Thanksgiving this year for the first time in a long time. Mom is here from Pennsylvania, where she teaches at a Black boarding school outside of Pottstown. Uncle Melvyn just moved here from California earlier this year, pastoring a large church across the Potomac in Virginia. I'm here because my doctoral program is here.
Grandmom enjoyed a Thanksgiving where she didn’t have to cook or work. She deserved to fill up her plate!
Grandmommy is here, too.
But for the first time, Grandaddy isn't.
When I was growing up, I never really felt like I was missing anything. My mother, uncle, and my two grandparents always made sure I was taken care of. I had food, school uniforms, church clothes, my own room, Tae Kwon Do and piano lessons, and a loving space to be myself.
Throughout each summer, I would stay with my grandparents. Whether Mom and I lived in Michigan, Texas, or Louisiana, I knew there was always a safe place at my grandparents’ abode. There was the beautiful house with its ornate furniture and the familiar smell of Grandmom's perfume and Grandad's cologne. The big, neighborhood lake that my Grandad and I would walk around and the woods with three bridges over a quaint stream.
Grandad and I would engage in all kinds of adventures together.
"Buddy Phil!" he used to exclaim. "Oatmeal's ready!"
We'd wake up together at six o'clock in the morning. After pastoring about thirty years, Grandad would get up and make sure his sermon was good and prepared. On Sabbath mornings, you could hear his boisterous voice coming from all the way upstairs. He was commanding you, no, compelling you to believe that Jesus was coming again soon, his favorite sermon to preach.
Usually, he would go out for his morning jog. Growing up, Grandad had diabetes and a pacemaker. To extend his life, he made sure to walk and jog every morning and every evening. Sometimes, against Grandmom's wishes, he'd go out in the rain or the ice. When he came back, he'd always make our bowls of oatmeal and drizzle honey on the spoon.
Grandad put me in the driver’s seat and I definitely confused the break and the gas.
"It's hot, Buddy Phil! Eat around the corners, see? Like this!" he would always patiently show me how to avoid burning my tongue with searing hot oatmeal, just like he would later patiently attempt to show me how to drive in his Toyota Avalon—never losing his temper on me, even when I hit the curb and poked a hole in his tire and didn't want to drive again.
We had our routine.
Please ignore the bald fades I was subjected to. The early-2000s were a wild time, but they were a good time.
Get up, have breakfast, brush our teeth and hair. He'd shave. I'd watch, fascinated.
We'd start our adventures for the day. We had lots of relaxing days. He'd recline in his favorite big, blue chair in the corner of his room and watch shows like Perry Mason, Matlock, Monk, Emergency, and more. I'd play some Super Mario Bros. or watch Kim Possible (he would sing the theme song while he made lunch for me in the living room).
When you're the only child and you're always moving, you don't always get to hang out with friends. I'm really not that old, but there wasn't any social media in those days, either (the closest I had was Neopets...and I loved taking care of my Kougra, for the record). Above all, Grandad was my buddy. So every day when the little hand was on three and the big hand was at twelve (and after his daily nap), it was the best part of every day.
It was game time. That meant several games of UNO or he'd indulge my neophyte understanding of history and geography and we'd play Carmen Sandiego. It meant he'd do his "Philadelphia Shuffle" after every card game, as if we were on his native Pearl Street in Philly. It meant he'd somehow dealt me a whole hand of treasures I didn't know how to attack with: four draw four cards to go with three wild cards. He'd laugh and laugh while he'd give me hints to be a better player and learn the game.
Since Grandad couldn’t be in New Mexico for my last three years of high school, he still made me feel like he was a part of the moment when he framed this picture of my highest scoring game. He wasn’t there, but he made me feel like he was.
Grandad even tried his hand at video games because of me. When I got a Nintendo Wii, I would take it over to my grandparents’ house. Grandad was fascinated. He never really bothered with video games before, but it definitely all changed when I challenged him to a round of golf and bowling on Wii Sports. He didn’t hold back. At 70, he was still owning me. After all, he did run track against the legendary Wilt Chamberlain back in high school.
Grandad made every day feel special. He made me feel like the greatest at anything I did: he framed a picture from my highest scoring game in high school, he would proudly take pictures of me when I would graduate to the next belt level in martial arts, and he would film me practicing my dunks (with my iPod Touch). When I would play NBA 2K, Grandad would watch and remark that it looked like the real thing. He would yell, with the commentators, “Here comes ‘Smoove!’” as my MyPlayer would barrel down the lane for an emphatic dunk.
Some variation of my name was used for some of his passwords: to unlock his computer, open his email, anything at all.
Since Grandmom was still working, it meant Grandad and I would usually accompany her on several road trips. I’d sit in the back seat of the car, directing them with a trusty map. We’d leave early, just so we could enjoy experiences like visiting George Washington Carver’s birthplace or Bluff Dwellers Cave. Sometimes, Grandmom would save up just to take me to places I’d always wanted to see. Together, we visited Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; New York City, New York; Washington, D.C.; Richmond and Jamestown, Virginia, and anywhere else I wanted. Disney World? We did it, twice. NASA in Houston? Been there, too. My church’s world headquarters in Silver Spring, Maryland? Done. They made sure I had the greatest childhood I could have had.
When Grandad and Grandmom would come visit any new city or state Mom and I had relocated to, there was always a picture! When I lived in New Orleans, Louisiana as a 7-year-old, my buddy came to see me then, too.
5-year-old Phil was definitely not amused with the friendly NASA people begging me to smile.
Grandad’s hands at Thanksgiving always held something special. He knew I loved cranberry sauce and thought the greatest part of every meal was a deliciously buttered roll. We would request the bread and cranberry sauce on our side of the table. He’d playfully sneak me another piece of bread while he loaded his plate up with another round of collard greens, dressing, broccoli and cheese casserole, dinner roast, and whatever else Grandmom would orchestrate in the kitchen. “Dad, you’ve had too much over there for one day. I’m just trying to keep you alive, Mr. Diabetic!” Grandmom would playfully scold while Grandad would laugh with me.
Me and Grandad would always sit next to each other at any church potluck. “Eat a little more for me,” he would say, and then I could have some more bread!
“Grandad’s Hands,
Used to hand me a piece of candy.
Grandad’s Hands,
Picked me up each time I fell.
Grandad’s Hands,
Boy, they really come in handy!”
Derived from “Grandma’s Hands” | Take 6 | Beautiful World (2002)
He was there for everything. 8th grade graduation, high school graduation, the time I dislocated my pinkie, my first sprained ankle, my first basketball game...he even took me to a Dallas Mavericks vs. Orlando Magic game (and I may or may not have worn my Dwight Howard #12 shirt underneath my Dirk Nowitzki jersey in case the Magic won—they did).
Most importantly, though, Grandad instilled his hope in Jesus in me, too.
He, alongside Uncle Melvyn, baptized me when I was 8 years old. Grandad was so proud when he pulled me up out of that water. He always made me feel like I was his son and since he never looked as old as he was, most people believed it.
Grandad was my dad in every sense of the word. Grandad was just what I called him, but he was certainly my Dad.
“Remember, Buddy Phil, you are always a Warfield. Nobody can tell you different,” he would say in a firm, loving voice. Grandad wasn’t too big on the “I love yous,” but you never doubted for a second that he did love you.
To everyone else, he was Pastor Warfield, but I never had to call him pastor. The word “Grandad” in my vocabulary was synonymous with the way he lovingly prayed with me in the morning and in the evening when I went to sleep. When he prayed, it felt like you were transported to the gates of Heaven: “Gracious Lord, we thank thee,” he would begin his prayers. Grandad was synonymous with playing “Egypt to Canaan” or “Life of Christ” every Sabbath afternoon. Grandad’s hands would pull splinters out of my hands and dress me up with Neosporin like his military experience taught him to do when he was stationed abroad.
When we visited different places Grandad had pastored throughout his several decades of ministry, people would announce his presence by calling him an old name, “Warhorse.” Grandad was Warhorse because of how tough and hard-working he was. There was never too tough a ministerial assignment for him. He evangelized and preached all over the world alongside Grandmom. The Warfields were always a team.
As he got older and his heart began to give him more trouble, Grandad was still himself. Through my college years, though, I slowly watched Grandad start to depend on a cane, which became a walker, and eventually a wheelchair. I watched Grandmom retire and within weeks become a full-time caretaker. I watched Grandad stumble and fall a few times, requesting my help to get him up. I prolonged going abroad in undergrad because I didn’t want to be so far away in case I needed to get back to him.
I thought of Grandad as I walked through the cold streets of Paris, France with my girlfriend, Natalia. I thought of how he was stationed in Paris and took a picture that I’d love to recreate some day. I thought of Grandad when I walked the centuries-old streets of Athens, Greece, thinking about the many times he and I had gone for walks and talked about the Apostle Paul and other biblical figures. I thought of Grandad when I saw Africa for the first time from the Rock of Gibraltar. Grandad always reminded me of the power and awareness it took to be Black in this country. I’ll never forget as he stockpiled newspapers and magazines the day Barack Obama became president. He was so proud.
As 2020 began, I decided to go back to my safe place again—my grandparents’ house near Atlanta, Georgia. When Grandmom would tell me she needed my help, I’d spring into action. Sometimes, when Grandmom needed to go to the store, I’d sit and hang out with Grandad as he sat in his chair.
“Phillip, will you get me out of this chair?” Grandad would ask.
“No Grandaddy, I can’t. Maybe when Grandmommy comes back, we can get you up for a little bit.”
He didn’t talk very much anymore, but as I watched him, I’d remember when we’d play “I Spy” while waiting for my swimming lessons, or the time he gave me a V8 and I accidentally threw it up on the kitchen floor, or when he would jokingly debate with me about Michael Jordan vs. LeBron James (he was a really big fan of Michael Jordan), or when he would drop what he was doing and go visit a sick friend or church member. It didn’t seem right that he was now that sick church member.
When I woke up that Monday morning in February and received an email of acceptance from Howard University (and was accepted to a Ph.D. instead of an M.A.), Grandad was the first person I told. I ran down the steps and entered into his room while he sat in his usual chair watching “The Bionic Woman.” I sat on his bed.
“Grandad! I made it into Howard University’s Ph.D. program! I did it!” I said, excitedly.
Grandad stopped watching TV for a few seconds and turned to me and grinned. It took him a little bit longer to process things now, but I could tell he was proud.
Grandad smiled at me like this on many occasion, but this day was his 80th birthday, and he was happy to see me with a camera just as he had taken all those pictures of me growing up.
“That’s...that’s a Black school!” He was able to say as he smiled from ear-to-ear.
I got to experience many of Grandad’s lasts. What I thought was a stop after college to figure out all of life’s next steps was actually time well-spent with Grandad. I helped Grandmom get him in and out of his car for the last time—the same car he would drive me everywhere in and pass me words of wisdom (alongside a trusty pack of Icebreakers). He looked so happy to be able to ride in his car and have a small cup of ice cream that day.
Back in 2017, and before Grandad got much sicker, Grandmom wanted to do another family road trip. As we always used to, Grandmom and Grandad would sit up front while I sat in my back-right seat. We were on our way to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Grandad’s hometown...partially to see Mom’s new place near Pottstown. This trip, however, Natalia came with us. As I helped Grandad get in and out of the car and take care of his needs, he told me for the last time what I meant to him. I’m grateful Natalia reminded me of this memory:
“You’re a really good grandson, Buddy Phil. Thanks for taking care of me. You never complained. You fixed me right up.”
Grandad always made sure to wish me happy birthday. He was notorious for a random FaceTime call after a message like this. I sure do miss him randomly calling me.
Grandmom and Grandad were a team. They were everyone’s example.
I still go through me and Grandad’s old texts on my computer. He never forgot my birthday. He never really forgot anything. He made Grandmom feel special every Valentine’s Day, every wedding anniversary, and every birthday. He would always get her flowers, sometimes plucking roses from his rosebush in our backyard growing up. He and Grandmom would toil in their garden together, and Grandad’s hands remained a source of comfort for her, too.
Though tired everyday and some days could be really hard, Grandad had a wonderful birthday and they could both smile.
This year, I wanted to make Grandad’s birthday really special. He was turning 80 years old, after all. So Natalia (who was still with us due to the pandemic) and I plotted. At 3am, on July 8th, we decorated the kitchen. A shirt that Mom bought for him had come in the mail. Natalia and I woke up early and disappeared off to Walmart, frantically searching for birthday plates, balloons, and Martinelli’s sparkling cider for the man who meant so much to me.
We hustled back home and surprised Grandad. He was grinning from ear-to-ear as he got to snack on his favorite TastyKakes from his native Philadelphia. I filmed him as our whole family FaceTimed him on my phone. His sister called him from California.
“How’re you doing, Melvyn? You sound good!” Aunt Hazel said.
“I’m doing just fine!” Grandad responded. He sounded just like his old self.
Uncle Melvyn bought him an Edible Arrangement and had it delivered to the house. Grandmom wheeled Grandad into the living room, and after he had a few pieces of fruit, Grandad was ready for his grand finale for the day: some sparkling cider in a “fancy” glass.
You see where I get my love for Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider, don’t you?
He took his glass from my hand and slurped it down.
“I think he’s had too much birthday for an old fella like that. What do you think, Dad? You want to have another one tomorrow?” Grandmom jokingly asked Grandad while he sipped his drink.
“Yeah,” he simply said.
“Well, it’s not gonna happen!” Grandmom said, throwing her head back and laughing. He laughed with her, just as they always had for nearly 49 years.
It’s hard to be a full-time caretaker.
By the end of the summer, Grandmom needed a bit more help with Grandad, so she enlisted a few nurses to help her give Grandad the best care he could possibly have. A nursing home just wasn’t an option. Grandmom never complained, though this chapter of her work was probably the most difficult. She rose early and asked God for strength every day, especially asking that Grandad would have a good day. Sometimes she wouldn’t sleep very well, but she would get up and take care of Grandad every day. Without fail. She gave Grandad the kind of quality care that didn’t seem humanely possible.
As it came close to the time for me to pack up and move to Washington, we’d desperately been searching for a new (to me) car. Time was ticking and I needed to get on the road soon. Grandmom and I sighed. It was time to enact Plan B.
Plan B was what I was afraid of. It meant taking Grandad’s beautiful, silver 2007 Toyota Avalon with me. Before I left, I had to clean it and put all of my things inside. So, I slowly took Grandad’s old tapes and CD’s out of his trusty car. Grandad used to belt out the words to “The Potter’s House” and “Goin’ Up Yonder,” by Tramaine Hawkins when we would ride together. Grandad would sometimes falter and sing off-key, but he loved his music! I thought of the moment I first sat in the front seat with him. It was a really big day when the Airbag popped on. I was finally old enough and heavy enough for the car to recognize someone was sitting in its front seat. I put Grandad’s various name tags and personal items in a box, stopping when I stumbled on an icebreakers container—one of our favorite past-times.
“Grandad would never part with his car. He would only part with it if he was giving it to you,” Grandmom told me later.
With as many boxes as we could fit into Grandad’s car, it was finally time for me and Natalia to get on the road. It was July 30th, the last day I would see my Grandad.
Whenever we would come together as a family and have to go back home to our various places, Grandad would always pray for us—just as he prayed for us every morning and evening by himself. As ill as Grandad became, July 30th was no different.
Natalia and I walked into my grandparents’ room and Grandad prayed for us. Even in this state, his voice was still firm and strong. He prayed for me by name and prayed for Natalia, too. If there was a small moment when he forgot something, Grandmom would help him remember. As he said Amen, I turned to Natalia and said, “I have a feeling that I really should have recorded that prayer.”
I looked at Grandad one last time.
“He’ll be okay, Phil. He’ll be alright,” Grandmom told me.
I walked up to Grandad and shook his warm, larger-than-life hand. Oh, what a firm grip he still had at 80 years old! He smiled at me as he always did. Natalia gave him a big hug, to which Grandad grinned and chuckled to himself. Grandmom followed us out and waved from the garage as we pulled away. Through the years, Grandmom and Grandad had always walked out of the house and waved at us—whether that was me and Mom or me and Natalia—they would wave until we were no longer in sight.
The last picture Grandad and I took together on his 80th birthday.
It didn’t feel right driving the car I had grown up in. I relayed memories to Natalia as she sat in the very same front seat that I had once sat in. It began to rain on our way up to Washington, D.C. The car jerked just a little bit as I hit the gas. I called Uncle Melvyn and he’d told me Grandad’s car had all kinds of horsepower and special things he’d added to it. We wrote it off. Yet, by the time we arrived in Charlotte for what was supposed to be a brief stop to see friends at an ice cream parlor, the car stopped on an exit.
I pushed the gas. The engine revved and revved. I wasn’t in park or neutral. I was in drive and the traffic light had turned green. The car was slowly inching backwards! I couldn’t move! Frantically, I called Grandmom. Eventually, as the weekend progressed, we realized Grandad’s car’s transmission was done. With over 250,000 miles and several repairs done in the past, we decided to retire Grandad’s car there in Charlotte.
I’m learning that you’re never prepared to handle what would happen next.
October had been a very long month. I had traveled to California to visit one of my two best friends, celebrated two weddings, and I was preparing to write several papers to conclude my first semester in my doctorate. I hadn’t seen Uncle Melvyn in awhile, so I drove the twenty minutes to his house in suburban Maryland one Friday evening. We were catching up when he happened to look at his phone.
“Phil, I think you’d better go home,” he said, abruptly.
Over the next few days, Grandad’s health rapidly deteriorated and he wasn’t expected to hang on for too much longer.
I tried to prepare myself for a moment I could never imagine.
While the country awaited the contested results of the presidential election, I waited to hear about my buddy, my grandfather.
Finally, Grandmom called at 12:01pm on Wednesday, November 4th.
“Phil, Grandad just passed. He loved you very, very much. Are you going to be okay?”
I wasn’t prepared to walk down the aisle at Maranatha Seventh-day Adventist Church in Atlanta, Georgia on Friday, November 13th at 10:57am.
I wasn’t prepared to ride in a limo, wearing all black.
When Grandad came to visit me in New Mexico, we were finally the same height! I’d spent so long looking up at him. Now, I looked at him eye to eye.
I wasn’t prepared to see a hearse carrying—No, I wasn’t prepared to think about who it was carrying.
Even in retirement, Grandad would take on a few churches to pastor every now and then. This church happened to be one of his last in his “unofficial” leadership in Tennessee.
With help from Mom and Aunt Robin, I made it up to the front of the church to see Grandad again. There was my buddy, who had adventured with me for my 24 years. The man who made every sacrifice he could for me. The fatherly figure who was so, so proud of me. His hands had carefully molded me.
He was sleeping in his favorite pastoral robe.
He looked like he had when he retired in 2003, when I was 7 years old. He looked like he was ready to preach the Second Coming again.
I zombied throughout the service, sobbing in ways I didn’t think were possible. Natalia was there again, activating her extra love and support when I couldn’t say what I needed. I thought I’d be able to keep it together, but even the strongest of us, Grandmommy, thought she could, too.
“Help us to remember that there’s no sin in crying,” Uncle Melvyn said as he gave the final prayer.
“You [Death] used to make me cry,
But one day, He’ll wipe every tear from our eyes,
He’ll come make all things right.
And we’ll sing death has died, but until that day…
This won’t be forever.”
“Death Has Died” | Andy Mineo | Heroes for Sale (2013)
I’m learning I will always miss and mourn Grandaddy, but I firmly believe I will get to see him again. Grandad really believed and inspired thousands of people, when he evangelized, that Jesus Christ was coming back to take all of us home. Grandad believed that those who had died, believing in Christ, would rise again when Jesus came back. When Jesus comes back, all of us who are still living will be caught up in the air to meet Jesus again. Death and its unnatural pain will be done, forever.
I know when Grandad hears that great, angelic trumpet, his eyes will snap open and, with both fists, he’ll punch up and out of his resting place in the quaint hills of Georgia. He won’t have a pacemaker or diabetes. He won’t have high cholesterol or ailing kidneys. He won’t have any ounce of dementia. He’ll be flying up to meet the One he so firmly believed in.
I’m looking forward to hearing that familiar “Buddy Phil” when I get there. I’m looking forward to telling Grandad all that I did and for him to beam with joy when he meets others who were impacted by me—all because of what he did.
So, as you eat your Thanksgiving meal and you warm up the leftovers, please remember my family. If your grandfather is still living, give them a hug or a firm handshake for me.
As for me, I’m waiting and hoping for the day I get to see my grandfather again. Waiting for the day I’ll shake his hand again.
Until that day. This won’t be forever.
I hope I’m everything your hands molded me to be.
I don’t have Grandad’s hands no more...
And when I get to heaven…
If I get to heaven,
I’ll look for Grandad’s hands.”
Derived from “Grandma’s Hands” | Take 6 | Beautiful World (2002)
See you soon, Grandaddy. Thanks for everything.