I think I'm probably the worst type of witness. If anybody ever asked me to identify someone by their hair or height or facial characteristics, I'd be hard pressed to come up with anything good. I wonder if I'm that way because of my dad.
To say his appearance was incidental is a ludicrous understatement. I wasn't trying to be a good person, forcing myself to look beyond at the person beneath. My father's spirit completely transcended the patched up old vessel he occupied.
Don't think I didn't pay attention. I can expound in great detail about the smell of his shirt in a warm embrace and the beautiful sound of his whistle or his fingers flying over the keyboard. Press your hand to my heart and you will feel how it skipped a beat when I opened the door to him as Santa Claus. Watch my face and be drawn into knowing how he gently got to the nut of a topic and brought it to light. Watch in my sons the affectionate display of earned devotion as they recollect being treated as unique in a cluster of twelve.
At the place where memories are formed, we learned how to catch his spirit and love and keep it for ourselves. We carry his torch forward.
No comments:
Post a Comment