An Unknown Saint

When I was a child, I listened to other children talk about their heroes. For many, those heroes were Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman. For others, they were police officers and fire fighters. My hero was a man I considered an unknown saint. His name was William Otto Blair, A.K.A., "Otto" or "W.O." To me, he was "Pappaw." My maternal grandfather--a carpenter and a preacher--was a good man.

He was rugged and powerfully built. Standing 6'3", and weighing about 230 pounds, he had broad, squared shoulders and a narrow waist. He seemed to be made of rock-solid muscle. His huge arms could swing a sledgehammer to tear down a house with the power of Thor, as easily as most could swat a fly. Those arms could powerfully cut wood and build houses. They were very gentle, however, when he held his grandchildren. His hands were large and square, with an artist's long fingers. Hands that easily played a guitar were heavily calloused from so much work. But those hands felt like velvet when used gently to wipe away a tear.

I remember, as a little girl, sitting on the bathroom counter watching him perform his morning ritual. After carefully brushing his teeth with Crest toothpaste, he rinsed his mouth with Listerine. Then, he washed his face with Ivory soap and warm water. He squirted Colgate shaving cream into a coffee cup he kept by the faucet, and used an old horsehair shaving brush to smear the cream on his face and neck. He shaved with an old-fashioned two-sided razor. After shaving, he'd slap on Old Spice aftershave. Always clean-shaven, his cheeks were soft and smooth; his jaw was square, giving him almost rugged look.

In the evenings, I would sit in the floor beside his recliner. After a hard day of work, and a hot shower, he relaxed. He wore a sleeveless white undershirt and blue denim overalls. I would drink in the scent of Ivory soap and Old Spice, as he recounted tales of his boyhood days in the Great Depression. Sometimes he would tell me about the days of the "Second Great War." This made him sad. A heart murmur, discovered during his physical, kept him from serving his country.

He kept his thick, wavy hair cut very short. He told me, "If it gets longer than this, I can't even run a comb through it. So every week, I go get my ears lowered." His hair was the color of the white, wispy clouds on a warm spring day. He used Brylcreem in his hair. He'd pull out the tube and squirt a small bit into his hair. As he worked it in, he'd smile at me, and say, "A little dabba dooya." He combed his hair straight back, which emphasized his high forehead. His nose was long and straight, giving him the "classic" profile. He was a very handsome man. The most striking features, though, were his eyes. The color of the clear-blue sky at midday, his eyes were often called "Blair-blue." Many in his family had those same eyes.

Every night, he went into his study, shut the door, and prayed. This was his alone time with God. He went in there on Saturday right after supper and stayed in there all evening. This was his time to prepare his sermons for the next week.

I remember sitting in the pew, listening to him preach. His Sunday suit looked as comfortable on him as those "relaxin' clothes," and his favorite place was behind the pulpit, preaching his Sunday sermon. He had a passion for God that permeated every aspect of his life. He preached at home, in church, and at work. He didn't drink, smoke, or curse. His opening line, upon meeting a stranger was, "Do you know Jesus as your Lord and personal Savior?" He carried a Bible everywhere he went. One copy stayed in his study to help him write sermons and went with him to church. One copy stayed in his little Toyota pick-up.

He even preached from his deathbed. On Easter Sunday, 1985, Dr. Shelton broke the news to him that the rest of us had learned on Good Friday: Pappaw had a malignant tumor on his liver. It was inoperable and terminal. Dr. Shelton gave him two months to live. At first, he cried. He had no fear of death, but he didn't want to leave his family. When his tears were gone, he looked up into Grandma's eyes and gave her a beautiful smile. "You know," he said in that rich, clear alto voice, "I'm finally going to meet my God and Savior after all these years of preaching about him."

By Father's Day, that year, he was suffering. Fluid had built up in his feet and legs so much the skin cracked and oozed. He spent a lot of his time in a wheelchair. We never heard him complain, though. He considered it "just part of the process." We saw him suffer through Independence Day and on through August. The entire nursing staff was surprised he was still alive. We saw that hated tumor grow so large it began to crack the skin across his belly. We watched him toss and turn in his sleep from the pain that even morphine didn't help. Finally, after much pain without complaint, he passed away on October 10, 1985. No one could explain that--despite his pain--he died wearing a sweet, peaceful smile.

The comfort I received was meeting the nurses who took care of him. They spoke so highly of him and called him a godly man. I realized, after speaking to these people, that throughout the months he was dying of cancer, he preached some of the best sermons of his life.

My grandfather was a truly good man. Many children chose for their heroes those with supernatural power or renowned bravery. My hero had a supernatural grace and quiet bravery. He was the closest thing to a saint I have ever known.