There are two signature acts that my dad would do when I was a little girl. One was when we would hold hands crossing the street and he would give me a big tug upward on my hand to step up on the curb--a tug so intentional that my feet would almost dangle off the ground. The second is when he would tuck me in at night and he would wrap the blanket tightly around my feet. Both of these gestures are etched in my mind and no one can claim its affection to me other than my dad. I’ve recently found myself doing both of these things for him. When I took him to his radiation appointments, I held his hand and tugged upward as we stepped up on the curb. And now when I help him into bed to rest, I wrap the blanket tightly around his feet. Who knew that decades earlier those impressions would flood its way back into my memory both to give me comfort and to serve as the passing of a mantle?
I’ve had a difficult time as of late with the aging of my parents. I’ve been clinging to every word they speak, every time I can wave goodbye as I drive away from their house, every chance I can say, “Let me do that for you.” It’s as if I want to make a permanent record in my mind that I’ve appreciated them enough and made up for the times when I wasn’t the ideal daughter. But I’m realizing that the two gestures that I mentioned, which have now reversed in exchange, hold a deep and silent bond between my father and me that allows me to accept whatever comes.
I believe in a loving and merciful Father in heaven. The good that I find in my earthly father is but a small reflection of Him. Even in the absence of words or the limited quantity of opportunities to share, to have had a father or father-figure in any measure, I believe, is a gift—an everlasting gift in a temporary realm.
Let me explain. I had a chance to take my parents to the Commissary today. The crowd inside was insane because of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. My mom maneuvered the shopping cart ahead of us through the produce and I walked closely beside my dad who I set up in the motorized shopping scooter. With his impaired vision, I’m not sure that was the greatest idea, but we made it through sans difficulty. We pulled to the side briefly to sample the apple cider and I bent down to tell my dad that we would wait right there until mom got what she needed from that section. The woman serving the apple cider said, “How old is your dad?” I said, “He’s 79.” She said, “My dad is his age. He’s in hospice now.” With tears in her eyes she continued, “It’s so hard.” All I could do at that moment was hug her and say, “I know…I’m so sorry.” We smiled at each other, nodded with understanding and then I continued on with my father. In hindsight, I kept thinking of all the things I could have said to her, but words seem insufficient. Then again, words aren’t always necessary.
What I’ve come to understand is that pain accompanies loss in any degree. No one wants to experience it, yet without it, we would be blind to the mercy, comfort and compassion of the Heavenly Father. And we, in turn, would not know how to deliver mercy, comfort and compassion to a world that is hurting.
I dedicate this post to many of my friends that have said goodbye to their fathers—ranging from many years ago to very, very recently. Still unsure of words, I want to at least say, you are a special gift to me and the everlasting gift that your fathers placed in you lives on.
