Taking the time to be with his daughter--
The one that was like him--
In the solitude that was the creek.
My father, running as fast as he could
To save his loved ones from a fire.
My father, working late into the night to help his clients,
To put food on the table.
Who hunted ducks and geese,
not just food for our table,
but for neighbors who had none.
My father, talking proudly about his granddaughters,
Yes, "Old Beck".
Pretending patiently to eat the "tomato and lemon soup"
she so proudly made for him.
Teaching "Old Beck" how to play baseball on the Fourth of July.
Listening to his Becky playing the clarinet and then the violin.
"Bile them cabbages down!" he laughed as she played.
My father, encouraging me to read the Bible.
Giving me a reference book.
Giving me his wisdom
culled from years of reading the Good Book.
A mustard seed to remind me.
My father, watching baseball.
Reading his baseball books.
Asking me to copy pieces out of old newspapers
About his beloved Yankees.
Talking about Babe Ruth, the greatest baseball player ever.
About Lou Gehrig, who might have been even better.
A string of names, the greatest of the great.
My dad, who loved to laugh.
Who one day was in my grandmother's house,
which was shut up for the winter.
Hearing his girls on the front porch,
playing with the new kittens,
decided to play a prank.
Ghost-like chords from the old piano;
thump, thump, thump went the heavy footsteps on the stairs.
And two young girls went flying off the porch
and "up the lane" to home and safety.
Who used to tell a story of playing Authors
with his young daughter, who could not yet read,
To play the game, she had to ask the question,
"What he wook wike?"
Who, driving across the Piankatank River,
would always quote
"The Piankatank, the Piankatank,
where the bullfrog jumped from bank to bank."
My dad, watching westerns.
Nobody like John Wayne these days.
My father, who loved to hear how I was doing at work,
who was happy at my small triumphs.
My father, who when my mother was in the hospital,
put aside his weariness
and picked up a frightened four-year-old
who wanted her mommy.
"I won't let anything hurt you," he said
and laid his tired head
down on an uncomfortable, too-small bed
rather than leave the child in her fear.
My father, who to the day he died,
kept the frozen orange-juice can
with a drawing wrapped around it
I had given him to hold his pens.
My father, who had in his wallet that day
The pictures of his three little girls, now grown women,
their three little girls, now young ladies,
and his beloved wife.
The day I was born, my dad
(so they said...I was there, of course, but I don't remember it)
My dad beat on his chest like Tarzan
when they said how much I looked like him,
especially around the eyes.
My father, who is in Heaven.
With Our Father, who art in Heaven.
Our Father, who says we are in His image.
We look like Him, especially around the eyes.
And He loves us so much,
and is so proud of us,
and won't let anything hurt us.
Our Father. A father to the fatherless.
A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows,
is God in his holy dwelling. (Psalm 68:5, NIV)