The Presence

 

     There has never been a day since my father died that I sat and thought, "I wish that Dad would still give me presents. I miss those."

No, I miss him.

     I sat ready at my computer to reread and edit a book I am finishing, and all I could do was stare at this photo of my father walking down the street with three of Audrey's children when her family went to visit my parents. 

     My mother and father loved spending time with family and traveled quite a bit themselves across state lines, east, west, north, and south to visit their precious grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

     My sister and I learned at an early age from our parents that we were not just going to look at the mountains, glaciers, lakes, and mighty rivers in picture books; no, our folks planned adventures across this country and even into Canada to view up close the beauty and grandeur of this part of the earth. Sitting around campfires. Hiking up and down mountain trails. Going through caverns.

     In person, there is no comparison, even if it is the most excellent painting or photograph, to replace seeing these sights in person. The haze out in front of the sunrise, or the misty rain across a rainbow, or the sounds of the birds, insects, and calls of animals out in the wild, away from the automotive sounds of our inventions.

     My fondest memories are not of things, but of the people who have populated my days. My mother at the stove, getting ready to serve up something wholesome and delicious. My father was out propelling his rototiller, directing Diana and me on how we should space seeds in the garden. My sister and I, weeks later, plucked ripe tomatoes from the vines and sneaked in a few bites with a salt shaker in hand as we worked.

     Visiting sons who traveled afar. Weddings here and there. Soothing daughters as they went through labor. Holding those tender bundles after so much anticipation. Rocking and singing and burping for years and years until, before I knew it, these little grands turned into adults ready to be out on their own.

     No, Dad, what I miss about you is your presence. Not stuff: I miss you. Your sincere interest in whoever was near. Your contagious laughter that started us all smiling. Your heartfelt apology when you had been too sharp with me. The time you gave just to hear me out. 

      I ran to get the tools that you asked for when you were building and remodeling. I watched in awe as you transformed a cement basement into a dorm room for students and could not wait to see the cement pour into the frame you made for the sidewalk and steps to the back door.

     Singing, oh how I miss you bursting out in song early in the morning! It annoyed me as a teen, and yet I would give anything to hear it now. Your opera arias and tenor solos made me swell with pride. You led congregations in song with such love and tenderness, and I saw how precious God was to you. I saw how you sought him every morning. I wanted to know God like you.

     You didn't know that I watched how intent you were when you read from your Bible, but I knew what made you so special. I knew Who spoke wisdom into you. I understand where those fruits of the Spirit in your life came from: that love, joy, peace, faithfulness, patience (most of the time), gentleness, goodness, kindness, and self-control. 

     Even today, I want to imitate you wholeheartedly, yet for myself. I loved being in the presence of my earthly father as a child, and now I understand the quiet time you spent each morning with your heavenly Father. Nothing compares. I enjoy it too. 

     I miss my earthly father's voice, embrace, and affirmation these days, but to honor him, I will pass on his secret to any who cares to listen. The keys to my father's essence are the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, who are waiting to embrace us all.