my father's heart.
As we meander down the final stretch of our 10 hour hike in knee deep snow, it's pitch dark, the trail illuminated by the soft glow of our head lamps and our joyful hearts. Every muscle pounds with each step, frozen air burning through us. In the distance, I see two bobbing lights, which momentarily seem like bright stars beckoning us onward. As the two lights grew brighter, bobbing away like silent motorbike lights, we noticed Thor's head poke up fondly. I immediately thought, “No way! Why would he come to find us, when we're fine?”
Closer, closer the lights came and I recognised the work overalls straight away. Bob rushed towards us, with relief building quickly in his face. He grabbed me first and hugged me longer and tighter than I expected. I made stupid joke and he didn't laugh. I felt his heart release.
A father's heart for his children is a sacred place that I've never been privy to.
I was such a loved kid; three adoring older siblings and a Mum who fought raging torrents to keep us bubbling along and unaware of her pain. I lacked nothing, yet I ached deeply. A child isn't meant to navigate their earliest experiences without a whole parent. A mother isn't meant to nurture her fatherless children. And yet, reality kicks in.
When I tell people about my Dad, they always apologise, or immediately assume I had a painful upbringing.
I am a legacy. My siblings are a legacy. Death cannot steal our joy, and his memory burns bright. My birth marks my father's passing in a perfectly poetic way. I don't feel grief. I won't lie and say I don't feel robbed. I can't escape the thoughts of what he would've said to me in moments of achievement or even the mundane. I can't pretend I don't desire his advice or his humour.
Closer, closer the lights came and I recognised the work overalls straight away. Bob rushed towards us, with relief building quickly in his face. He grabbed me first and hugged me longer and tighter than I expected. I made stupid joke and he didn't laugh. I felt his heart release.
A father's heart for his children is a sacred place that I've never been privy to.
I was such a loved kid; three adoring older siblings and a Mum who fought raging torrents to keep us bubbling along and unaware of her pain. I lacked nothing, yet I ached deeply. A child isn't meant to navigate their earliest experiences without a whole parent. A mother isn't meant to nurture her fatherless children. And yet, reality kicks in.
When I tell people about my Dad, they always apologise, or immediately assume I had a painful upbringing.
I am a legacy. My siblings are a legacy. Death cannot steal our joy, and his memory burns bright. My birth marks my father's passing in a perfectly poetic way. I don't feel grief. I won't lie and say I don't feel robbed. I can't escape the thoughts of what he would've said to me in moments of achievement or even the mundane. I can't pretend I don't desire his advice or his humour.
But, I feel deep abiding joy that he lived at all; that I got to live at all.
I’m so grateful that I have his eyes & his humour, his love for humanity & his fear. I’m grateful to love & know his God & to walk with his joy in my heart. I’m grateful to be his legacy he never knew. I reckon we would’ve been the best of buds.
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