This last week I have been considering the long lasting impact a father has on his children's lives. How one single decision can have a permanent effect on who his children become/or in the same token who they chose not to become. I have been greatly blessed to have wonderful and loving male influences in my life including my dear father. And I am most thankful to the Lord for that great gift.
If you have ever met or spent much time with my father you know without my saying so that he is at once a very loveable and frustrating man. As I have no doubt I have gleaned some of his frustrating qualities I will not dwell on them. Instead I would like to tell you about a single decision he made many years ago which, to many, may seem inconsequential but to me it irrevocably changed who I knew my father to be and how I looked at him and others around me.
I have a small frame in my spare room with two photos in it. One is my favorite photo of my mother and the other is my favorite photo of my father. Each photo perfectly encapsulates who my parents are as individuals at their finest. In my father's picture he is standing next to an old, blind and miserably poor man who's hands are caressing a brand new wood cart. Next to the old man stands a grandson and a neighbor boy who at once look excited and bewildered. My father's arm is around the old man's shoulder and they both wear simple smiles on their faces. Every time I see the photo I am taken back to that moment in time and am again awed by my father's inspiration and dedication. I am awed by the man he is in his heart of hearts.
I remember the incident well. In one of the towns we stayed at in Honduras there was an old, poor, blind man who we saw every day. Each morning he would wake before the sun and travel with his broken down wood cart into the nearby mountains, he would then struggle back into town carrying the weight of his wooden load clumsily on his broken cart to sell for the support to his family. Even as a child I remember being moved to pray for him as I watched him struggle by, but my father was nearly brought to tears at the man's battle just to survive and provide for his family.
I do not recall if it was a few days or a few weeks, but my father determined he needed to build this man a new wood cart. I remember once my mother pointed out to him that we did not even know this man, he was a stranger to us. Where would we even take the cart, we didn't even know where he lived. That was not important to my father, we would stop him in the street if we had to. He would not sit by and watch the man's grief any longer without taking action. It seems to me that no time passed at all for the cart to be completed, but I am sure looking back it must have taken quite a bit of labor and time on my father's part. He made sure the load was equally balanced between the beautifully smooth tires. He lovingly carved hand holds that would be easily found and fit perfectly in a grown man's hands. He even put weight on it to make sure it would run smoothly when loaded down. Then, finally, the big day came.
I have no memory of how the blind man was located or how my parents explained to him what we were doing there with a new cart, but I remember the moment he first saw it with his hands. How he caressed every joint and groove. How he lifted it in his hands and wheeled it up and down the street. The quiet smile that never left his face the entire time as my father described to him all of the workings he had carefully planned with his special needs in mind. I don't remember the man saying much more than, "Gracias". Over and over he thanked dad for this great gift. It didn't change the hovel of a home he had into a castle. It didn't take away the economic needs he had or the work he still had to do every day. It only meant someone, a stranger, had seen his struggles and been moved to ease his burden in some way. He was not ignored or forgotten, his endless task planted firmly before him with no relief in sight. He was remembered, he was loved.
It was in that moment I learned who my father was, the core of his being. We all have mistakes we have made and parts of ourselves we wish were not there, but our core shines through in the random acts we think inconsequential. It was in that moment my father taught me who I should strive to be. That it is not enough to follow some prescribed ritual or formula to be righteous. But that being righteous is defined in those moments when we see someone in need, whether friend or stranger, and are so overwhelmed by our love for them that we cannot sit idly by.
There may be qualities of my father that I prefer not to inherit....like his beard. But to be like him in love for others...that would be nothing short of wonderful.
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