| Sunny Side Up June 14, 2006 �2006, Kathleen Gibson Dad , Mom and the Gibson Gang summer/05 Snapshots of my Father In one of my favorite photos of my father, his joyful spirit spills through his broad grin. He's perched atop his motor home doing what thrills most red-blooded males: chopping stuff. Trimming the elms overhead to make more room for his rig. Another favorite picture reveals Dad's tenderness. In that one, he's a stalwart young man, but he cradles a duckling. He'd rescued it at his construction site - a treacherous place for babies of any ilk. Another photo shows Dad, a few decades older now, amidst the ruins of an ancient Turkish temple. He's leaning against a colossal column, and appears carefree and debonair. He looks like a movie star, with his dark framed glasses and black wavy hair. Dad was no idle traveler, though. That tour of Middle Eastern holy sites was all about further understanding his devout Christian faith. Several years ago, I began taking candid snapshots to help me remember my folks when they're out of reach. In one, Dad's working in our garage, fixing a coffee table for the Preacher and me. I regret what the picture doesn't show: that Dad sang as he worked, often tuning his voice to the old hymn, "We'll work till Jesus comes." On a recent visit to my parents' home, (they're now in their mid-eighties) I took more photos. In some, Mom sits in a chair; Dad stands behind her. Cluttering the kitchen table in front of them are items you'd see in a beauty shop. Combs, curling gel, rollers, scissors. Dad, with no special training, does my mother's hair. Weekly, willingly. He's done it for years. That day, she'd requested he not only set her locks, but trim them. She can't lift her arms anymore, you see. And "besides, the price is right!" One picture shows Dad's weathered hands, smoothing a strip of silver hair to wind around the roller. "You should hang out your shingle, Dad," I told him. He chuckled, finished winding, and reached for the bobby pin protruding from between Mom's thumb and forefinger. My dearest images of my Dad, however, are stuck on the pages of my heart alone. Like this memory, snapped as a child, the day he taught me to ride a two-wheeler. "Steer the way you think you're falling," he kept saying, running alongside. Only his patient, steadying hand provided courage to keep pedaling. He gave me wings that day. Or this one: Dad, sitting quietly at the steering wheel of our parked car. Listening carefully as I spilled my broken heart. My teenage crush had gone awry. God designed it that parents would represent himself to their children. Sadly, too many people have an incorrect concept of God primarily because their Dads were absent, or tyrants, or merely disinterested. I'm eternally grateful that I'm not one of them. (Thanks, Daddy!) It's Father's Day this weekend. Children, as they always do, will continue snapping pictures of their fathers, images that remain locked in lifetime memory. Smile, Dads, you're on Candid Camera - forever. Respond Home |
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