We almost lost Papa in the spring of ’99.
Papa and Mama (who were actually not yet Papa and Mama, aka Charles and Jamie) took our family of newly grown, newly married kids to the Greek Islands. Immediately after we arrived in Athens and boarded our cruise ship, Charles fell ill with diverticulitis and didn’t emerge from his cabin all week. The six of us “kids” flitted around the stunning, magical Greek islands, in and out of shops and restaurants and tours all week while Charles remained painfully sick in his tiny stateroom, Jamie pretty much glued to his side.
After our week on the Mediterranean, Corbin and I were to spend an additional week in Italy with Charles and Jamie, everyone else flying home for different commitments. But there was no question that Charles needed to get home. The minute our cruise docked, the six of us kids watched helplessly as Charles and Jamie boarded a plane to DFW, hoping to get Charles to an American doctor asap. At this point his belly was distended to where he looked about eight months pregnant. He was short of breath, incredibly uncomfortable, and unsuccessful in finding any lying or sitting positions for relieving the pain.
Later that evening in our Athens hotel room, we received a call from Jamie. We all huddled around the hotel phone after Cameron’s response, “Wait, how are you in Spain?”
Corbin took the phone.
“Mom, this was a direct flight out of Athens to New York.”
Pause.
“What do you mean, they landed the plane in Spain?”
Corbin put the phone to his chest, “Dad’s in the ER in a hospital in Madrid. He was about to black out once they got altitude and the crew didn’t want to chance him not making it across the Atlantic.”
Charles spent the following week in a hospital gown, connected to an IV, shuffling through hallways and exam rooms under the practically negligent care of the medical staff and disinterested physicians in a socialized-medicine Madrid hospital. Jamie somehow found her way to and from a nearby hotel without knowing the language, the Spanish currency, or how to call a taxi. But in the end, the hospital staff was able to relieve Charles’ acute conditions to the extent that after about a week he could safely fly home.
A few weeks ago we celebrated Charles’ 77th birthday over a cozy dinner in Fort Worth’s Stockyards.
It’s been 24 years since that fateful flight when we really could have lost Papa somewhere over the Atlantic.
If the Lord would have taken him then, we would have been ok. Jamie would have survived these years (maybe), and we would still have been armed with the most amazing memories of Charles and his well-lived, well-loved life. But it takes my breath away to think of what we would have missed. It makes me recognize the gift of the last quarter of a century with this generous, tenderhearted patriarch.
We would have remembered Charles, but we never would have known him as Papa.
To Papa, on your 77th birthday ~
I am a different person because of these years with you. You have loved me as a daughter. You make everything more fun, from carting around a cooler of drinks through the (SWELTERING) Dallas Arboretum for my bridal pics, to emerging as fully-decked-out Santa every Christmas, to simply entering a room with a big grin and light-hearted quips. You remember to laugh, and you see the best in people. I don’t recall a meal out (no matter how many at the table) when you didn’t cover the bill. You make me feel safe, secure, and proud to be a Wilson. Of all the Wilson boys, I fell in love with you first.
Corbin is a different man because of your last twenty-five years. Early on you engaged with him as an adult. You gave him space to grow as a young man and young attorney, a husband, and four times a father. You let him call the shots for his family, even if yours may have looked a little different (we’ll never know). You generously shared your approval of Corbin, of his decisions, of our family, which granted security and confidence. You have loved us lavishly.
Branson, Hudson, Basden and Esther are different because of you.
“Charlie” will forever stand grounded with the confidence of your admiration for him.
“Sonny” knows how deeply he is cherished by his Papa.
. 
“Basden Joy” walks in a richer confidence because she knows that in your eyes she is lovely.
“Essie Jamie” exudes a tenderness towards you as a direct result of the tenderness you’ve granted her.
Our children – and each of your eleven grandchildren – are shaped by your guidance as a man, a provider, a faithful follower of Christ, a faithful husband, a joyful grandfather.
To your grandchildren, Papa means waking to smells of coffee, bacon and biscuits. And an unloaded dishwasher first thing each morning. Your grandchildren see Papa traveling the country to cheer them on in auditoriums and from the stands. They experience the adventures you provide for boating or fishing or snow skiing. They see your service as a Chaplain for the area mountain fire departments, bringing coffee and a strong shoulder and God’s truth into tragedy.
And perhaps, more impressionable than any of that, they watch your tenderness and protection and joy with Mama.
I cannot imagine the vacuum in our lives, and in the the lives of our children, without their Papa’s love and influence. God is good, all the time, but He’s been especially good to give us the gift of Papa.
We love you Papa and are beyond grateful for 77 years and more!
