I AM MY FATHER. Pts. 1-3

I walk.

I walk a lot

I walk on a daily basis, and generally in the wee hours of the morning.

As I was walking along a major four lane highway this morning, and I was passing a wall which runs along a gated community, I happened to look over my shoulder.

And right there “in front of God and everybody” was my father. Did I mention my father passed away five years ago? (Well, he did). But before you call the men in white, (I readily admit) I found myself looking at my own shadow.

But, oh how the shape of that shadow reminded me of my dearly departed dad. The outline of that familiar old profile was uncanny.

And as I continued to walk towards home, it occurred to me that whereas my father has gone on to his ‘long home,’ at this stage in my life, …I am not far behind him.

The closer I have gotten to my own eternal home, the more I have thought about that contingency; a contingency which must surely befall all of the inhabitants of this planet; (as it has done since time immemorial).

And to make it all the more ‘there there,’ I will be making a call this week to set up an appointment with our local funeral home. My wife and I have put it off long enough. It is high time we make our final arrangements. I refuse to leave this morbid task to our children, as, regrettably, my parents left that singular task to me. (Not to mention my 35 year old nephew who passed away in the past few weeks, and I, subsequently, assisted my sister with his arrangements).

My wife just informed me that as I was singing a solo in church yesterday, she thought I looked so much like my father that it was eerie. Odd, that many men and women bear such an amazing resemblance to their fathers and mothers, and the closer they get to, well, you know, the more they favor them.

Pt. 2

My sister forwarded a photo of my dad to me today; one which I don’t recall seeing before.

The picture depicts my dad at the age of perhaps 65 or 70; 15 to 20 years before our Lord called him home to Glory. When I asked her, Linda informed me that the photograph was snapped in Robbinsville, NC; along a river where my parents had purchased a cabin. It seems my dad was in the process of building a dock, though no structure, whatsoever, can be seen. (As I later learned, my nephew who recently passed away snapped the photo).

In the picture Daddy is wearing the most bedraggled clothes I have ever seen him wear. His jeans are replete with holes, and stains, and his upper body is clothed in a dirty t-shirt. In spite of the condition of his clothing, my father appears to be staring directly into the camera lens, wearing a smile which might easily compete with the sun, and with one hand raised in greeting, (or farewell).

Interestingly enough, as recently as I came into possession of this unique picture, it has become my all-time favorite of my dad.

And I think I like it so much because it so well characterizes the journey we know as life and death.

I think the river represents the threshold between this life and the next. That both literal and proverbial river we call Jordan.

My father’s torn and dirty clothing speaks to the trials, troubles and turmoil of life, and the manner in which it inflicts pain and suffering on all of us.

Whereas, the exuberant smile, and raised hand is all about the conclusion of such momentary symptoms, the joy which awaits the redeemed, and that one final opportunity to bid a fond “fare thee well,” but not goodbye.

And if I could select one scripture to accompany the photo, I think I might affix the following caption:

“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present life are not worthy to be compared to the glory which shall be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)

Pt. 3

Yes, in so many ways, I am my father.

I am bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. My countenance, my torso, my extremities are almost carbon copies of a man who has long since vacated the vessel in which he resided for almost nine decades, and which has now been destroyed by the only alternative to the grave.

And I must soon follow him.

And as one dear soul once mused,

“The memories of all the blissful moments (with which I have been so richly blessed) come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years…” (Excerpt, Sullivan Ballou letter. Edited)

And I think the prospect of ‘setting my affairs in order’ makes the certainty of my proverbial river crossing so much more real, than it otherwise might be.

Today I looked at a couple of college-aged students whom I am privileged to mentor, and shared a portion of my mission statement.

“My students are living messages to a time that I will never see.”

And having repeated that (by this time) well worn phrase, I added,

“I am all too aware that I have entered the final quarter of my life here. And every day, without fail, I pray,

‘Lord, please don’t let me miss whatever remains of my destiny.’”

As a believer, it helps me to realize that this is simply not all there is. As my father crossed the chilly Jordan waters, so must I assuredly follow.

While I am in no special hurry to depart the place to which I have grown so familiar, I look forward to once again joining the one to whom I bear such a striking resemblance.

William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 61. Copyright Pending.

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