This is my grandfather, J. Frank Bradley.

Isn’t he handsome?

He was born on June 5, 1886.
Yesterday would have been his 138th birthday.

He died in 1966, just nine months after my grandma passed.
It was said he died of a broken heart.

I don’t remember much about the man. I have no recollection of sitting on his lap for a story or playing peek-a-boo or even hearing him laugh. I was at the tail end of his line of grandchildren so he was already elderly when I came along. I faintly recall Grandpa Bradley’s baritone voice leading the “Doxology” at family Thanksgiving meals. Maybe that’s why I pulled this old hymnal down from the shelf this week. It’s a treasured possession.

The hymnal was gifted to J. Frank when he retired from singing in the church choir after 40 faithful years. Both the pastor and the choir director wrote notes of thanks inside the front cover. All 28 choir members, including the organist, signed their names.

“I must say that you are a fine human being and that you have been a source of personal inspiration to me during our years of friendship.”

Here is what caught my eye when I opened the old songbook.

March 8, 1959. I would be born eight months later. Still an unknown surprise, I was in the earliest stages of being knit together in the secret place, wonderfully and fearfully made.

I picture Grandpa Bradley in the Somers Congregational Church choir loft, holding his Pilgrim Hymnal and singing, “O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come, our shelter in the stormy blast, and our eternal home.”

It seems that this world is in even more need of God’s help than it was back in 1959. But I have just as much hope for my grandchildren in the years to come as he must have had for me.

Someday, in our eternal home, maybe Grandpa and I will sing a duet.