Grandfather's name was Sebastian, but everyone called him Pop, so I did too. He was central to my early life in Pennsylvania because I spent so much time at my grandparents' home. While Grandma cooked her hearty Italian meals, Pop serenaded me on his mandolin, the one he'd slung over his shoulder when he emigrated from Sicily. He'd light his pipe and let the gray smoke curl above his snow-white hair. A warm smile like that of a man in love spread across his face as he played. His long, slender fingers strummed songs he remembered from his childhood.
Pop had another gift along with his talent for music. Grandma called it prophecy. He accurately predicted the weather, and he saw things in people they couldn't see in themselves. Pop was a quiet observer who gently prodded with suggestions and reassurances. One summer Pop declared that a neighbor's troublesome teenage son would be a doctor someday. "The family couldn't believe it," Grandma told me, "but sure enough the boy became a surgeon."
Before I made any big life decisions, I always talked things over with Pop first. He played his mandolin, asked all the right questions and we came to a solution. His advice never failed me. I often thought his wisdom was inspired by God himself. Maybe angels whispered the messages in his ear.
My marriage (blessed by Pop) took me too far away from Pennsylvania—to California. How I missed Pop's mandolin music and his guidance. I visited only once a year but we kept in touch with frequent phone calls. One call was particularly bittersweet. "I have good news and not so good news," I said. I was pregnant with my first child. "I can't come home for my annual visit," I said. After two hospital stays my doctor insisted I spend the last trimester in bed. I confided this only to Pop, and just said "I'm fine" to everyone else. I knew I could count on Pop to keep whatever I told him to himself.
"I dream about the baby every night," I said. "I wonder if it's a girl or a boy. Then I wonder if I'm eating the right foods and taking the right vitamins. I worry my baby won't be healthy."
Pop said he'd keep me in his prayers as always, then gave the phone to Grandma to finish the conversation. I could hear him strumming his mandolin softly in the background. I needed Pop more than ever. Only he could ease my worries. He would have the answers to my questions. Our phone calls weren't enough.
One night I was startled awake. I expected to see my husband sitting on the side of the bed, as he often did when my worried dreams about my baby made me restless. But I turned over to find him asleep beside me. When I looked back I thought I saw Pop sitting there with me, big as life. I must be dreaming.
"Pop, what are you doing here?" I asked. He seemed so real.
"I want you to know everything will be fine for you and the baby," he said. "You will have a healthy boy. He will have the gift of music. Like me."
Pop's eyes sparkled, and then he stood up and walked out of the room. I heard the sweet sound of his mandolin playing somewhere in the night.
The music changed to ringing, louder and louder. A hand touched my shoulder. My eyes flew open. "It's the telephone," my husband said. So I had been dreaming about Pop after all.
I reached for the phone on my nightstand. It was Grandma's sister. She spoke softly into the phone like she was shielding the receiver with her hand so no one else could hear. "I have bad news," she said. "Pop passed over in his sleep. Your grandma was afraid to tell you because you're so close to having the baby, but I knew you'd want to know."
Five days later I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. We christened him with the middle name of Sebastian in memory of my grandfather. His love of music was evident at an early age. He happily strummed Pop's mandolin and taught himself to play several instruments, including the guitar. As I watch his long, slender fingers glide across the strings, I remember my dream, unlike any dream I've ever had. The angels who whispered prophecies to Pop brought his final message to me.
