When I left the cemetery today after putting new flower arrangements on my parents’ headstone, I did what I usually do. I began recalling memories. Today is Father’s Day, so many of those memories were of my dad. He was a preacher who believed and lived what he preached. He believed in Jesus, and he believed the words of Jesus.
It didn’t take me long to make it through the mental images of my dad to one of my favorite memories—one I only remember because Mama told me many times, so many, I can see it in my mind. This particular memory has a little history.
Apparently, I have always been quite the talker but not always in a good way. I remember Mama and Daddy both saying, “You would argue with a sign post.” Well, yea, especially if I was right! I started talking early, too, and skipped a lot of the baby talk. I even tried to help others speak correctly, at least one particular word. According to those who knew me when, if anyone called me Sylvie (sil-vee), I would respond, “My name’s not Sylvie. It’s Sylvia (sil-vee-uh),” with emphasis on the uh.
So you can imagine the distinctness with which I spoke during this particular memory. Daddy spent most of the first few years of my life serving in the Army. Much of that time was spent far, far way in Japan. When I was about two years old, the phone rang in the middle of the night. Even in the darkness and far, far away, I knew who it was. I jumped up in the bed and said, “That’s my daddy!”
Daddy’s gone now, but I trust the words he believed and preached. I trust that when I leave this life, whatever new body either of us has, I will know, “That’s my daddy.”