This morning I was reminiscing about my childhood, and I recalled a moment that is indelibly stamped on my mind. The Percer family had arisen early in the morning to leave on vacation (I can't really remember where we were going, but we ALWAYS left early in the morning). We all piled into the Corvair to begin our trip--parents awake and ready, and children still in their pajamas. We always left early in the morning because in those days air conditioners didn't come standard on cars. Leaving early meant we could drive before the sun came up and made it hot. It was dark, we settled into our places, and I remember very clearly the glow of my father's cigar as we drove into the dark morning sky.
I'm not sure why that memory sticks with me so strongly, but I can see it vividly. Dad, in the driver's seat, taking us on yet another summer adventure. Odd memory, no?
There is something about that orange red glowing memory that I love--my Dad, awake when others were half asleep, driving with confidence into a dark morning knowing that before the day is out he will bring us to our destination. Maybe it was just a morning memory . . .
You see, my father passed away in August 2004. It happened just before I moved my family 1300 miles from Texas to Virginia. I wrote a little piece about my dad and posted it here shortly after we moved to Virginia. In his honor and to celebrate Father's Day, I thought I'd post it again.
I have been thinking this morning about memories. My Dad has been central in my mind recently. Why? Well, I’m afraid I’m losing him.
Let me explain.
My dad wasn’t very active the last few years of life. Due to his own lack of proper care for his physical body and a host of problems with illness, the primary memory my children have of their grandfather is dad sitting in a big lounge chair watching TV and occasionally waking up long enough to tease them.
My children did not get to know my dad. He was never the most active guy in the world (I think I know where my own lack of activity comes from!), but he didn’t sit around a lot as I remember it. Dad coached baseball, football, basketball, if it had “ball” in the title, he learned it, played it, and probably coached it. My dad cared about folks that no one else wanted. He loved kids, even his own. I once saw my dad kick a field goal from the 45 yard line (that’s a 55 yard kick, if you didn’t know!). I was in high school then, so dad was probably in his mid-40s. He could kick the ball further than the place kicker on our team.
I remember looking for dad’s vehicle to pull up at the football practice field. I don’t know if he knew that I saw him, but I looked for him to show up so I could perform for him. Dad didn’t get real excited about sports (that was mom’s job!), but you could tell when he was enjoying something. He had this infectious grin and mischievous smile that would literally light up his face. I heard that for years after my younger brother graduated high school, dad would make his way to the practice field and sit in his car and watch the players go through their paces.
For me, his watching was a comforting presence that reminded me that he was there if I needed him. Oh, I’ll admit that I didn’t “need” him as much as he would like, but it made me feel real good to know dad was there.
I miss him.
Sometimes in my work here, I think that dad is sitting in heaven, in his heavenly lounge chair, watching his boy perform. Oh, I’m not blindsiding running backs and quarterbacks any more, but I can’t help but think that dad is silently cheering for me. He sits there, intently studying me as I pace a classroom or teach a class or grade a paper. When I make a particularly brilliant play, he smiles that smile. Even when I don’t do so well, dad looks approvingly on his boy. I can see him, sitting there, big glass of sweet tea on the table, a smile in his eyes, and joy in his heart. I want to make him proud, and I think he knows that.
My last words to my dad face-to-face were spoken around Easter of 2004. I don’t remember everything we discussed, but I remember putting my arm around his shoulders and looking into that face. His eyes were a bit dimmed by senility due to old age and illness. But somewhere in those eyes I saw the place kicker kicking a field goal from the 45 yard line. I remember saying this to him, “Dad, I love you. I’ll see you later.” At his funeral, the pastor asked me to pray at the grave site (actually, my mother asked me to do it). As I walked away from dad’s coffin, I touched the lid and said, “I love you, dad, see you later.”
I miss him, but I thank God I will see him later. If your father is alive, call him up. Tell him you appreciate him and love him. Memories are great, but I’d love to have my dad here to hug again. He’s much better off, but I need his smile. Dad, I love you. See you later.
So, why the cigar dream above? I don't know, but there is something about that glowing red ember in the early morning darkness that comforts me in ways I can't explain. Dad, he was there when needed and made sure people were supported or got where they needed to go. That glowing ember warms me when I'm cold and alone, because I remember how my Dad would show up and bless me. It blesses me when I am hot and bothered because I remember how Dad could make even a difficult situation seem fun and light. Who would have thought that a burning cigar could cause such a connection?
On this Father's Day, I hope you have fond memories of a Dad who was there for you. If not, I know a Father who is close at hand. He is there, he cares. Like my earthly Dad, God is there to direct us with confidence, to be awake when we cannot, and to take us on adventures we have yet imagined. He is the bright glow of life in a dark world. He is the constant that invades our crazy varieties of everyday life. I pray that today will cause you to think of God and his care for you. I pray that you will grow to know him more and more. Blessings!
Thanks for reading!
