Our church had a prayer meeting last Sunday night. The morning service included writing brief prayer concerns on rocks and placing them in baskets. That night, as people came to pray, at some point we were encouraged to pick of a stone and pray for the persons concern on the stone. I picked up one that simply said “Dad”. It moved me to tears. I’ve been thinking about the “Father” concept ever since then. My heavenly Father, my earthly father, and myself as a father. Then I thought of the first line of this blog entry.
My dad was like a father to me.
He took me with him to fix my Godmother Ginny’s air conditioner at the Ceramic Shop. He showed me his humble quarters at the Burdick Hotel. I followed him around while he repaired fridges and jammed locks. I recall watching Dad play horse shoes by the tracks at the fire station. He wore blue pants most of the time.
I remember the sound of the tires on a gravel road as we delivered his Free Press route before sun up. That’s when I asked him what his biggest regret was. “I wish I hadn’t got so angry at your mother.” Me too Dad.
When the benign tumor stole one eye, half of his smile, fifty percent of his hearing, and added an unsteady swagger when he walked I was nine. I had no clue how scared he was when he went to…
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