I wonder if he was afraid. I never saw him showing fear, but that doesn't mean he wasn't feeling it. I'm pretty sure I get my sense of fearlessness and lack of ability to get fully embarrassed from him (maybe we should call it self-assurance?), so I wonder where he got it from.
My father grew up not really knowing his father. He told me once that the only real memory he had of his father was at the funeral where he was taught the lesson of how not to treat each other after the death of a family member by his father's family. They fought over possessions. My dad was the youngest of his family and he was given his father's shoeshine kit to remember him by.
But also, maybe the stories about his father from his older sister, Mona, helped give him some lessons on how to be. But maybe he inherited some of it—or all—from the West Texas towns of Ballinger and San Angelo.
Can the land we live in teach us things about ourselves? About what we are made of? The summer heat and the brutal societal upbringing taught Dad a few things. He learned how to starve and survive on Campbell's tomato soup and saltine crackers. As he got older, he learned to bow hunt from bows and arrows of his own making, shooting rabbits and other creatures to help feed his family. He learned about survival from the land he inhabited.
He faced challenges and troubles and sin. He battled against his upbringing and anger and lack of self-control. I am sure he struggled, as we all do, with feelings of great inadequacy. With every apology after an angry outburst, with every admission of his guilt and terrible side of himself, he showed his weakness and severe imperfection. Nevertheless, he didn't ever seem to be afraid.
I never saw a fearful look on my father's face—ever—until the night he lost my mother. I saw how much he loved her and feared being left without her companionship, her good influence, her calming and caring friendship and love. The poor boy from West Texas who had to fend for himself sat crying in his chair in the home they fought to establish for their family.
In his grieving time before he passed away, I saw how weak things become strong. I got to see him overcome many of his worst traits in his final days. He needed to have his life's comfort removed to know true courage. It takes a big man to face his sins, claim them, and work to make things right. He felt small and helpless and hurt in his final days, but I saw him as a warrior overcoming his worst self and someone I wanted to be like. He taught us all to not be afraid of saying we are sorry no matter if the person will forgive us. He taught us to not be afraid to keep trying even after the thousandth time repeating the same mistake. He taught us that anyone can overcome their circumstances and be their best self.
My father grew up not really knowing his father. He told me once that the only real memory he had of his father was at the funeral where he was taught the lesson of how not to treat each other after the death of a family member by his father's family. They fought over possessions. My dad was the youngest of his family and he was given his father's shoeshine kit to remember him by.
But also, maybe the stories about his father from his older sister, Mona, helped give him some lessons on how to be. But maybe he inherited some of it—or all—from the West Texas towns of Ballinger and San Angelo.
Can the land we live in teach us things about ourselves? About what we are made of? The summer heat and the brutal societal upbringing taught Dad a few things. He learned how to starve and survive on Campbell's tomato soup and saltine crackers. As he got older, he learned to bow hunt from bows and arrows of his own making, shooting rabbits and other creatures to help feed his family. He learned about survival from the land he inhabited.
He faced challenges and troubles and sin. He battled against his upbringing and anger and lack of self-control. I am sure he struggled, as we all do, with feelings of great inadequacy. With every apology after an angry outburst, with every admission of his guilt and terrible side of himself, he showed his weakness and severe imperfection. Nevertheless, he didn't ever seem to be afraid.
I never saw a fearful look on my father's face—ever—until the night he lost my mother. I saw how much he loved her and feared being left without her companionship, her good influence, her calming and caring friendship and love. The poor boy from West Texas who had to fend for himself sat crying in his chair in the home they fought to establish for their family.
In his grieving time before he passed away, I saw how weak things become strong. I got to see him overcome many of his worst traits in his final days. He needed to have his life's comfort removed to know true courage. It takes a big man to face his sins, claim them, and work to make things right. He felt small and helpless and hurt in his final days, but I saw him as a warrior overcoming his worst self and someone I wanted to be like. He taught us all to not be afraid of saying we are sorry no matter if the person will forgive us. He taught us to not be afraid to keep trying even after the thousandth time repeating the same mistake. He taught us that anyone can overcome their circumstances and be their best self.
I really enjoyed reading this. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteThank you for taking time to read it.
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