I don’t want to put my father on a pedestal. He wouldn’t have wanted that. Always self-effacing, I can’t remember him ever seeking honor for himself. When someone would praise him, he’d point heavenward, to his Creator, and give God the glory.

          Now, many years after his death, I realize what a jewel of a dad I had. When he was still around—and especially during my adolescent years—I didn’t treasure him as I should have. I assumed that all dads were as kind and sacrificial as mine. I didn’t appreciate his meek, longsuffering nature, nor did I respect his convictions. Instead, I put him down many times, insensitive to the pain I caused him.

          Papa, now you know how sorry I am for hurting you so. Now you know how proud I am of you and how immensely grateful I am for the way you affected my life.

          Papa was born in Germany in 1893, and was old enough to have been my grandfather by the time I came along.

          When he was 17, he received Jesus as his Savior and decided to share His love with everyone he met. He entered World War I as a young soldier, reluctantly. He would have much preferred to save lives than take lives. Despite frequent opposition, he talked about Jesus at every opportunity. A few of the men had made a sport of mocking him and his faith, and sometimes they were quite mean.

          “On one occasion,” Papa recounted, “one of the officers grabbed my Bible to look for a certain verse that he and his companions wanted to tease me with. They weren’t able to find the verse, but they did find my prayer list tucked between the pages, and read it eagerly. To their astonishment, they also found their names written there.” Those rough, proud men humbly returned his Bible and apologized. From that moment on, they didn’t tease him again.

          Papa also told us about one of his superior officers who had been part of the mocking crowd and often cracked jokes at my dad’s expense. On the battlefield, however, he seemed to look for shelter close to my father. “Why are you always hiding behind me?” Papa asked him once. “I’m not bulletproof!”

          This time the officer spoke sincerely and without scorn. “There is just so much peace around you. For some reason, when I’m near you, I feel safe.”

          Papa’s voice would fill with emotion as he talked about a 19-year-old soldier who had panicked and was caught deserting before a major battle. He was to be immediately executed, but Papa begged for his life.

          “Please give me a little time to talk to him, sir,” Papa said, reasoning with the officer in charge. Papa’s request was finally granted.

          Papa told the boy about Jesus—the One who faced His fears and gave His life for us—and they prayed together. The young soldier then marched bravely into the battle, knowing it would probably cost his life. When they found his body later, his face bore the most peaceful expression. Clutched to his chest was the tract Papa had given to him. The text concluded with this verse from the Bible: “The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms” (Deuteronomy 33:27).

          After the war, Papa began studying to become a pastor, but had to give up his dream in order to rescue his parents from a financial crisis. With a family to support, he was never able to resume his studies. This didn’t hinder him from continuing to share God’s love wherever he went, however. He founded a Sunday school, and regularly led Christian fellowships at his local church, standing in for the pastor on many occasions. Visiting the sick and lonely was one of his favorite pastimes.

          I was the youngest of six children. When I was small, Papa and I adored one another and spent countless precious moments together. But when I grew older and turned my back on God’s love and the faith of my parents, it broke Papa’s heart. I barely communicated with him during my teen years, as I didn’t want to hear any of the sermons I expected him to preach to me. My mother already preached enough—or so it seemed.

          So Papa opted to remain silent, while Mom and I argued a lot. “Why do you talk so much with our daughter?” Papa would ask her. “It might be better to talk with God about her!” Sometimes my heart cringed at the way he would look at me, his eyes full of sorrow. Our sweet father-daughter relationship had faded, and he found the hurt hard to bear. I felt miserable too, but didn’t want to admit it, so I put on a tough front.

          Papa talked to God about me, and God listened. At the age of 21, I experienced a miraculous transformation. Like a prodigal daughter, I returned to Jesus and asked Him to take care of me. He answered my cry and gave me the love and fulfillment I was longing for.

          Papa was so glad! What a joyful reunion we had! Mom told me how over the years he had not ceased to pray desperately and with strong determination, “Lord, help her to find You, no matter what the price!” Thank you, Papa, for holding on for me and for helping me to find true happiness!

          When Father went to Heaven a few years later, a short article about him appeared in a local newspaper. In part, it read: “It’s a rare thing to encounter such heartfelt kindness and patience as Mr. Gruenhage showed to others. Those who met him could feel that ‘he had been with Jesus’ (Acts 4:13).”

          In his own humble way, Papa was a saint—the sort of stuff that Heaven is made of. 

          Marina Gruenhage (1947–2005) was a full-time volunteer with the Family International for over 30 years, much of that time spent in Japan.