My Father’s Presence

“My mother was difficult, but I always knew my father loved all of us.”

“Really? You hardly mention him, I thought maybe he was out of the picture.”

That conversation, which I had a couple days ago and my Lenten reflections led me to think about earthly and heavenly father/child relationships.

My friend’s question surprised me. My father is there, in my heart, in almost every memory. Quietly, steadily, filling the gaps and supporting us all. I can’t remember a single flashy thing about my father, but I remember how happy I was to see his black and white ’53 Buick turn into the alleyway when he came home for lunch or at the end of his workday.

My father never owned a new car until he retired, but I think he loved that used Buick best of all the cars he’d owned. I was too young to understand the darker black letters and shapes where something had been removed before he bought it. He’d occasionally refer to it as a black and white, and I am guessing it might have been a retired police car. I know for sure that there were times when he’d like to ‘open it up’ or ‘clear the carburetor’ as he occasionally sped on a wide open road. He never sped recklessly, but he’d accelerate a bit and smile with the tip of his tongue barely caught between his front teeth. I saw this, because I often accompanied him on his after work errand running, so that Mom could rest a bit.

Before running errands though, my father would go downstairs, clean the grease and oil from his hands with orange Goop, change out of his mechanic’s attire and return upstairs to take a short nap. I still love walking into a small auto shop and sniffing the air, hoping to detect the smell of Goop. I need to go buy some. To me, it smells like love, security and sitting on the arm of Daddy’s armchair while he napped.

I remember, too, sitting at the top of the warm ramp on summer days, while I waited and watched for his black and white to turn in at the end of the alley. As soon as he turned in, I would hop down and run to the end of the sidewalk. I would wait there for him to get out and join me. I would get a pat on the head, if he came home clean enough not to leave traces of grease on my hair. And when he headed to the basement, I would get my Suzie doll and go wait for him on the arm of that big red velvet chair that was becoming threadbare on the arms.

I would get annoyed some days, that he would talk to my mother too long when he passed through the kitchen. I would tell him so. He would laugh and say that I needed to be patient. And then, he’d ask me about my day. I would chatter away and he would fall asleep. I don’t recall that ever bothering me. We ran errands several times a week when he woke up. Or, he would go out to the garage to work. I would sometimes get to follow. Other times he’d tell me that he needed to saw or work under the car and it might not be safe for his little girl. Sometimes, one of my brothers joined him. 

My father spoke softly. He didn’t say a lot. He walked to church every Sunday. He expected the boys to wear a shirt–never an undershirt–at the table.  When he’d get ready for church, golf, or taking Mom out, he’d dress up appropriately, shave, and put on Old Spice. Sometimes, he’d threaten to give me a whisker rub on my cheek so that I could check if he’d gotten all the whiskers cleaned away. I would giggle and pretend that I wanted to get away. He’d always catch me. He and Mom would slip out the door while I was still giggling.

Dad didn’t allow foul language. He would issue a reprimand once and expect that we would listen. If not, he would repeat it, quietly starting with the words ‘I said’. I don’t recall that he ever needed to say much more before the infraction or roughhousing stopped. I know that I never wanted to experience the feeling of disappointing my father. I think my siblings, for the most part, felt the same way. The one and only time that he spanked me, I did not feel the light tap. I did, however, see the tears in his eyes and felt my own tears burn as I felt the shame of disappointing him.

And, I guess I don’t need to talk as much about him, because the memories of his  presence rest well and deep in my heart.

This Lent I think about Jesus and his relationship with his Heavenly Father, and the sacrifice he asked of Jesus. And, I am grateful, that I come to my reflections as someone who has known a loving earthly father, as someone who could trust that my father had my best interests at heart. I can’t imagine my earthly father asking one of his children to die. But, my father did watch a son go through polio, another go to war, and he experienced one of his children dying before he did. And in all the other things he saw his children and grandchildren go through, my father had our best interests at heart. I have never had reason to doubt that. 

And I think about the wording of John 3:16. Somedays, it seems so odd that the focus is on God the Father giving his only begotten son rather than on Jesus giving his life. And, the main question Jesus asks, “Is this necessary, is this really necessary that I go through this?” 

And, I picture God, the parent, with tears in his eyes wishing with all his heart that he could save the one from suffering, but knowing it would be at the cost of many others. And I can see Jesus trusting his Father’s love so much that he accepted that despite the temptations of the devil. I picture Jesus seeing the tears in his Father’s eyes and choosing to trust and accept what his father asked. And it’s still overwhelming.