Memories of My Father

I can still feel those roughened fingers, worn and oil-stained from years of mechanical work, running through my hair. The anxiety that had troubled me moments earlier was gone. I remember that what he said gave me courage and pointed to a God who would walk with me in my new elementary school.

This is the only memory I have of my father talking to me. I was just 10 years old when he suffered a stroke that caused partial paralysis on his right side and took away his speech. From that point on he could only speak forced words limited to my brother’s and sister’s names and a few other short words. I would watch my dad purse and move his lips, trying to say the words forming within his mind. Frustration moved across the features of his face.

The first few years after his stroke, my dad’s behavior was unpredictable. At times, he became violently angry when we didn’t understand what he was trying to tell us. Sometimes he would withdraw and spend hours in his garage, fixing lawnmowers and anything else with an engine. After a while, he would come out of the garage and ask with his endearing hand gestures if we wanted chili cheese burritos from Taco Bell. Or sometimes he’d ride bikes with us to the local store for candy bars, Pepsi and Cheetos. These moments assured us that he was still our dad and he loved us undeniably.

As I grew into a young woman, I watched my dad grow, too. The anger and frustration left. Instead there was a quiet resolve. My dad’s silence spoke of a faith in God that even sickness and poverty could not shake. With each calamity my dad comforted us, pressed his hands together and looked to the sky. It was his way of saying, "God is in control. Trust Him."

Without words, God also used my dad to touch others outside our family. One year, during vacation at our church camp, my dad came across a woman crying by the lakeshore. She was grieving the loss of her third unborn child. My dad simply sat down next to her and listened while she talked. After a while, he reached down, picked up a rock from the sand and gently placed it into her hand. Then pressing his hands together, he looked to the sky as if saying, "God is a rock and a fortress. Trust Him." He touched her gently on the shoulder, gave her a crooked smile, got up and walked away.

His heart finally failed him in 1994. It has been seven years since I last saw my father’s face, but the lessons he taught me live within my heart. I learned that God heals hearts more often than illnesses and that God lovingly uses the hard times in our lives to touch others. I learned that when I do not understand why something has happened to me, I must trust Him. I learned that actions really do speak louder than words.

For a moment I am reminded of my dad. Filled with his memory, I pray that my children will learn the lessons my dad lived for me. That they might see a steady calm in me despite the chaos of life. That they will know I have a rock-solid faith that will not falter during life’s difficulties. And when words fail me—when I am tired and frustrated—I pray that they will see me press my hands together and look to the sky.