I haven’t written much about him, my father.
There’s a brief cameo here and there — fragments stolen from conversations we’ve hadover the years, hard-earned insights of his that I plagiarize from time to time — but not much more than that.
He shows up a lot in my dreams. A comforting presence, one of spiritual authority and support. That’s a welcome trait, dreaming or awake.
They say that your conception of God is formed by your relationship with your father.
I see God as an active, passionate presence in our lives. A wholly loving creator who desires complete and total reunion with His creation, who will settle for nothing less than that. He will do anything to get His arms around you, no matter what it takes.
Separated by time and distance — physical and ideological, I suppose — my father and I still talk without having to “manage” to do do, without having to make an effort.
We always talk, although perhaps not often enough.
We’ve always talked.
If there’s one thing I learned from him, it’s that our words are sometimes the only thing we have to keep us connected, to cut through the knotty problems, to heal the breaks between (and those within) people.
He’s funny, he’s kind, he’s infuriating, he’s honest, he’s well liked, he was a good son and a good father, and he’s a good friend.
I’m his son, to be sure, best I can be.
And today’s his birthday.