I dropped those newborns on his lap, like a brightly wrapped, present to a king. He sat, quiet. Holding them. Or looked up at me as if saying, “Again?”, half-smiling.
It didn’t matter if the baby was Caucasian, Hispanic, Samoan, or African American. This strong man, with thick, calloused hands, and a hat that covered his thinning grey hair…
I saw his face…Soften, like a child, the moment he held each infant.
It was like he went back, a little boy, to when he was cradled in the arms of his own father.
And it was that rehearsel for heaven that gripped my spirit, when I layed my children in his lap.
Few knew the story of my father. They often only saw his strong arms, steel confidence. The smile with dimples that beautifully mirrored my own, and my eldest brothers.
They saw a kind man who would see past all your thoughts, and ask questions that were directed at the heart.
There wasn’t fluff, fake, plastic, pretend. Refreshingly, he was who he said he was. Steadfast like a mighty steam-engine, never losing power…
Well, at least, not until the end.
They say when someone passes, naturally, as an elder, they revert to being child-like. I think that’s true.
A brain bleed in the later stages of Acute Myloid Lukemia, left my father innocent, direct, and funny as all get out. I am not sure if I loved him more then…
But he was purer.
More of who he was. Raw. Real. Human in every perfect sense.
All defenses down, like those children, I once placed so willingly on his lap.
My dad loved my children. He fought for them in the backdrop of diapers and court systems, sleeplessness and parenting challenges.
It was like he had a looking glass that peered straight into the deepest need of a child going through withdrawals from drug addiction, or emotional challenges or abuse physically from their first parents.
And he would often stare at me with those powder baby blues and say, “Jenger (because that is what he called me. that is my REAL name). be patient with them.”
Often adding all that they had been through…
Responding like an army sargeant who had been through war and had his own scars to prove it.
He spent an entire week attending one of our child’s court trials. He was teary from what he saw. Picture’s of our then daughter he loved, harmed unnecessarily.
People run from hard. They hide. Pretend. Drape themselves in leaves of new things to hide the reality that they are hurting.
But, my dad never did.
He never ran, haphazardly away from pain. Instead, he just seemed to stomp right through like the game he used to play with my kids…
He used to say “Fee Fi Fo Fum”, as he confidently dropped each foot to the floor while my children hid, waiting for their grandpa to find them.
Then, when he would find them, they would giggle.
My eldest daughter in particular used to laugh with full belly laughter at the thought that she was found.
Follow the laughter and there was my dad.
He would smile big.
That smile. It melted anything in its path. It was the beacon of hope to so many.
It wouldn’t always come when we had earned it. In fact, he never fancied “earned smiles”. He cared less about impressing people or us propping ourselves up to be somebody.
He smiled most often when I was weak, helpless. When I was too broken, hurt or had no words to say. It was his smile that was everything…
The sun, the moon, the stars, that always led me home.
The face that held the hose, as he watered the lawn, when I drove up with a pile of kids.
He doesn’t look up anymore. He doesn’t sit like an island king on his painted porch, lawn well-tailored, and perfectly manicured…
Somehow knowing, instinctively, when I was coming.
He doesn’t wave with the light on, face in front of a puzzle, or standing by the door of the porch that held my heart as I would leave.
There is nothing here physically to remember him by. Just a grass filled grave, without a plaque, and the open sky above him that he said he would rise towards, when Jesus finally returned.
His obituary stares at me, as I sit and write this.
I edited his photo a thousand times, finally realizing all the fading of the background can’t make my Father any stronger or bigger than what he already was.
I lay my face down in the dirty carpet. Head below heart. Because that is always the place of surrender.
And just like always…
All the performing and trying harder doesn’t earn us golden stars…
It never made him love me more. And it can’t make him love me less.
A true father is steadfast Unchanging. Unwavering. Not insecure. My earthly father taught me that.
My heavenly Father represents so much more.
“Let the little children come to me.” God, like my dad, embraced the little children. Children weren’t a nuisance, but a gift that echoes throughout eternity.
My dad’s feet commanded respect as he walked straight towards my kids, playing and laughing with them, to build connection.
He was love. Attention. Time. Everything a daughter needs that’s unconditional.
No mighty arrow, no worldly presentations can strip a real man from who he is.
Death may rob us. Cancer may devour us.
But the Spirit? It is mighty. Mighty indeed. And my dad, though he is dead, lives on inside of me.
And I can see my dad in heaven now, with those I love. Wrapped arm in arm. Smiling. Watching. Waiting to walk us to our one true home.
Comforted, knowing, people’s legacy’s don’t pass.
They last, remain, are retained in the faces of my children. In the heart of this person. In the flickering hope found in the hearts of so many who sat on his porch and were listened to without criticism or judgement.
His light remains on….
Not on the front porch of the home I grew up in, since age two…
But in our hearts. My heart. In the ripples of such love, that always points us towards home.
And turns us from hearts of stone, to…
Be like, little children.
