Daddy, The Comic

This morning I am thinking about my dad’s delightful sense of humor.  He had quite a knack for cracking people up, delivering jokes and quips with perfect timing and often with a paradoxical straight face.  I remember one day while the two of us were riding somewhere in his car.  We passed a woman standing on a corner, and she was wearing lots of makeup.  I mean LOTS of makeup!  Without missing a beat, he said, “She has to wear it like that, baby.  Or else someone might mistake her for something that escaped from the zoo.”  With an incredibly quick and clever wit, Daddy could render all those around him rolling with laughter or trying desperately to suppress it...sometimes at the most inappropriate times and places...while he sat or stood by with unflappable composure and a façade of innocence.  One day some of my mischievous older siblings stumbled upon a previously unbeknownst source of my dad's comedy.  It was a not-so-well-hidden stash of albums featuring Moms Mabley and Nipsey Russell!  We would sneak and play the records while our parents were out, laughing hysterically at the same jokes over and over, as though hearing them for the first time.  With some of the jokes, I didn’t really know what I was laughing about, but it was still funny.  To our surprise, Daddy came home one day while we were playing the “secret” albums.  No one noticed that he had come in the back door.  We were so busted.  He looked around the living room at each one of us, sitting there frozen with guilt and feeling the sting of complicity.  Then he chuckled and headed for his room.  He didn’t have to say it directly, but we knew we had better stick with The Three Stooges and Mel Brooks movies after that.  Looking back, I can see how Daddy’s humor was like a powerful glue in our home.  So many times, it helped to hold us together as a family when we were children.  And even now as adults, I see how it has bonded us to one another as friends.  Certainly my dad's legacy of laughter has remained with us, even to this day.  What a wonderful inheritance. 

Daddy, The Man Who Loved Mom

This morning I am thinking about how greatly my notion of a desirable relationship, romance, and marriage are shaped by the template of my dad’s love for my mom.  I remember how he would bring her beautiful, red roses.  Usually it was for their wedding anniversary, but at other times it was just because.  He would also give her the sweetest cards that made her smile.  I remember how occasionally he’d take her…only the two of them…to get away from us six kids.  They’d go out for a nice, quiet dinner or for a long drive together.  I remember how much they really seemed to like each other.  Sometimes dad would get home from work first, and other times mom would.  But, oh how they each perked up and lit up at the arrival of the other!  I remember how he looked at her, held her, and treated her with such tenderness and affection.  My favorite thing to remember is how I’d lay in bed some nights and hear them talking and laughing in their room…like amicable partners, like faithful companions, like best friends.  I realize how nostalgia can dramatically enhance the images of the mind over time, so one day I asked my mom to talk to me about dad.  Her reaction and her words just melted me and let me know that my recollections were pretty accurate.  It’s hard to describe, but as she spoke it was as if she became young again.  She described him as protective and funny and kind.  What stands out most in my mind is how she said, “He loved me.”  In my present season of singleness, this is the picture I carry around in my heart:  a man who is thoughtful, affectionate, protective, funny, and kind; a man who perks up and lights up when he sees me; a man who will be my trusted and intimate friend; a man of whom I can say, “He loves me.”  There’s a saying I’ve heard that speaks to a woman’s tendency to seek in a man that which she knows well.  The saying is, “We marry our fathers.”  For me, that would be a blessing.           

Daddy, Lifter of the Fallen

I am thinking about two occasions when I fell…hard…and my daddy was there to comfort and take care of me.  One time we were hanging out in the yard together, just talking and laughing, when a neighbor came up to the fence to talk to him.  I was not at all pleased with this intrusion.  So, I headed for the grapefruit tree and started to climb.  My intended strategy was to demonstrate my exceptional skill of upside down, hanging-by-the-legs, branch swinging.  This, I figured, would amaze our neighbor, who was facing me.  Then he would alert my dad (whose back was to me) to turn and focus his attention on my wonderfulness.  I had successfully positioned myself and started to get my rhythm.  Back and forth, back and forth.  Suddenly, there was a loud crack!  I hit the ground with a thud, flat on my back.  I was utterly embarrassed, but at least the neighbor went away.  Another time, I was standing on a seawall while my dad waded in the water below with his crab net.  I could have just sat and enjoyed the view, but I wanted to be close to him.  As he moved more and more to the left, I felt compelled to get up and walk down to be a bit nearer.  Once he had secured a nice catch, he started making his way back to the right…back to the metal tub in which he would unload the crabs.  Of course, I got up and started walking back to the right as well.  I don’t recall if I was looking at my dad or if I became distracted by his net, full of crabs.  Whatever the case, I wasn’t watching where I was going and I walked right off the wall.  Again, I hit the ground…this time with a splash, on my hands and knees.  Again, I was utterly embarrassed, but at least I was closer to my dad.  What I vividly remember about both of those instances was how, in an instant, my dad was at my side lifting me up into his big, strong arms.  Despite any scratches, bumps, and bruises, I believed I would be okay because he was holding me.  Lord knows I’ve fallen lots of times since then.  I’ve fallen on tough times, fallen in love, and fallen out of favor…hard.  Lord knows I’ve borne some emotional scratches, bumps, and bruises too, including some real shiners.  It’s truly amazing, though, that there remains a shield around me that keeps me from being utterly broken and destroyed whenever I fall.  Sometimes it’s utterly embarrassing, but at least I’ve come to truly know God’s grace.  I’m thankful for how my heavenly Father lifts me up in His strong, everlasting arms.  And I know I will be okay because He is holding me. 

Daddy, The Protector

This morning I am thinking about when my dad followed my school bus in his car, all the way to Starkey Elementary.  A desegregation order called for the children in my neighborhood to be bused to schools that were lots of miles and lots of minutes away from our homes.  For my dad, this was at least a forty-five minute drive, one way.  But he did it for a week.  He wanted to make sure I was safe.  There had been incidences in which people used cruelty and violence to express their sore displeasure at having Black children brought into their neighborhoods, to be taught in classrooms alongside their White children.  Being only a second grader at the time, I didn’t really know or understand any of that.  All I knew was, on that first day of riding the bus to my new school, one of my friends said, “There go yo’ daddy!”  She pointed to the back of the bus, where I could see him right behind us.  I felt some kind of special when, for those few days, kids made room for me on the back seat so I could look out the window and see my daddy following.  I knew my daddy could find his way to my new school if he needed to, and it made me feel so secure.  One thing I remember about my elementary school years was that my daddy always seemed to be there.  Somehow he would manage to come pick me up so I could stay after school for special events, like the Fall Carnival and the Spring Fling dance.  He was there to see me perform on stage at evening programs.  And he made sure that I was there, bright and early one Saturday morning, to go on the Student Council trip to Disney World.  As I reflect on those years, I realize that his presence was not only to protect me physically.  He was also there to protect my emotions, my education, and—in a profound way—my childhood.  I’m not altogether sure how Heaven works, but I honestly hope that somehow my daddy knows what an impact his love and sacrifice continue to make in my life.  I hope he knows he helped me to believe that where real love is, I am always well protected.          

Crash!

This morning I am thinking about the bird that flew into the window of my office at work.  The unexpected thud startled me, such that it shook my attention from the task in which I was engaged.  I turned to look just in time to see the poor thing flitting, wobbly and dazed, to a small tree nearby.  There it sat for a while.  I imagined it was trying to get its bearings.  And then it flew away.  Being intrigued, I decided to Google “why birds fly into windows.”  It turns out there are two main reasons, but the one that gave me pause was this:  Birds fly into windows because they don’t see them.  Now, when I first read that, I thought, “Duh!”  But, then, I kept reading.  What struck me was the explanation that birds don’t expect to encounter hard, transparent “walls” in the sky.  For the bird, windows are not supposed to be there.  Of course, the glass in my window was manufactured and intentionally placed there to serve as a barrier.  It was not designed with the bird in mind, but rather for the protection of those on the inside.  An insight that comes to me today from that encounter of Bird vs. Window is that I, too, sometimes find myself crashing into unanticipated barriers unseen and un-fore-seen.  Racism, discrimination, ignorance, malice, duplicity and insincerity…just to name a few.  The walls of strongholds such as these are HUMAN-ufactured and firmly established where I don’t necessarily expect to find them.  They are intentionally placed for the protection and preservation of those who would hide behind them.  They’re not always apparent, but strategically transparent.  That is, until I slam into one of them.  It renders me stunned and disoriented for a bit.  And, man, does it hurt!  But here is where I see a difference between the bird and me.  (Fittingly, the thought fills me with joyful confidence and makes me want to soar.)  Unlike the bird, I don’t have to retreat.  Instead, I have the powerful weapon of faith.  My weapon of faith makes barriers fall with a CRASH!  It clears the way of the path that is intended for me.  And it leads me forward into all that God has purposed for me to know, to do, to have and to be.  Amen.

Seeing and Being

This morning I am thinking about the work week ahead, with all of its potential challenges and its favorable opportunities.  As I sit in prayer and meditation each morning, I like to cast forth a vision of what will be. I know exactly what I need (and want) to accomplish.  I mentally map out the actions I will take and, sometimes, even the words I will say.  I anticipate what I will do if obstacles arise, such as limited time or other resources.  And, then, during my evening reflection I lay my morning vision side by side with the picture of the reality that actually developed over the course of the day.  Many times I find, to my dismay, that the two images are vastly different.  More often than not, things just don’t turn out the way I’d envisioned.  But, today I am struck by a profound insight.  What I have tended to focus on in my visioning is what I am going to do.  Truthfully, the bulk of my work involves three rather complex entities—money, federal regulations, and people.  So unpredictable are the actions and reactions of others!  What I am required to do must be flexible and open to change at a moment’s notice.  There is really no way I can predict, much less control, how a day…or a week…will unfold.  However, I absolutely have power and choice in what I determine to be.  Right in the midst of much that is given to change, I can choose to be constant in my character.  So I cast forth a vision of being grateful and joyful.  I cast forth a vision of being diligent, creative, and efficient.  I cast forth a vision of being respectful, compassionate, and kind.  At the end of the day, I won’t need to lament what I wasn’t able to do if I am at peace with who I chose to be.  I know that I can hardly wait to see.

My Super Power

This morning I am thinking about the night I surprised myself with an unexpected display of “super power” that was provoked in me.  I was awakened from sleep by a loud banging, which sounded like someone trying to break in the back door of my house.  My first and only thought was to protect my daughter, Ari, whose bedroom was closest to the back of the house.  In no more than three motions, I flung the covers off and catapulted myself over the footboard of my bed.  Then I sprinted down the hallway towards the back door, with my barking Chihuahua in tow.  I passed a drowsy Ari coming out of her bedroom, having also been awakened by the noise.  Not knowing who (or what) I’d find on the other side of the back door, I flung it open.  Of all the things I could have imagined, I didn’t expect to see what I saw.  It was nothing.  Only the still, dark screened porch.  Nothing was disturbed, and the porch doors were securely shut.  Operating on a pure adrenaline high, I turned my search to the inside of the house, angrily snatching open the doors to every room and closet.  I suspect there was a very strong, “somebody-is-going-to-get-a-beat-down” vibe emanating from me, as Ari and my dogs watched with curiosity and caution.  After I had checked out every possible entry place and hiding place, I began to calm down, concluding that all was safe and sound.  My daughter began to chuckle a bit.  For one thing, I believe she was relieved to see me slowly start to look more like her mild mannered mom again and less like The Incredible Hulk.  But I also believe she was somewhat fascinated and tickled by my recklessness.  “Mom, you were mad,” she laughed.  I couldn’t help but laugh, too.  Then she asked, “What were you going to do?”  I said, “I don’t know.  I was just thinking, ‘how dare you come in my house?’”
 
The next day I learned that the “banging” we heard was the sound of a high-powered rifle used in a shooting at the lake nearby.  It was confirmed that no one had been trying to break into the house.  Nevertheless, the incident certainly revealed my willingness to lay it all on the line for that which was truly of value to me, namely, my precious child.  Remembering that night, I find myself sitting here feeling provoked again.  This time, though, it’s not because of a threat to my physical dwelling.  Rather, I am provoked by lurking mental, emotional, and spiritual burglars that persistently case out the residence of Hope and Peace I have chosen for my life.  Doubt, fear, and unforgiveness are among the usual suspects.  These would-be intruders are sometimes subtle, attempting to enter quietly without my notice.  At other times, they are brazen, throwing themselves violently against the doors of my heart and mind.  Inside are things that are of value to me, like faith, joy, integrity, and love.  Inside are things these thieves could steal, kill, or destroy.  But today I remember that I have a super Power that is far greater than adrenaline.  It is the Spirit of God, which enables me to respond to these thieves with swiftness, boldness, and fierce courage.  It makes me smile as I envision myself putting these thieves to flight, all the while shouting, “How dare you?!”