The boy (who for some time had had boys of his own) sat beside his father’s hospital bed. As he gazed upon the feeble figure before him, he longed to tell him the secret that he had known so long, and yet had been so fearful to tell. His fear was not based on a lack of conviction, but in the possibility that sharing the secret with his father might tarnish their relationship, which was one of the boy’s most cherished treasures.
From the beginning of his memory, until this very moment, everything of value that the boy had learned (except for this one thing) he had learned from his father. Of course, through the years, there had been many useful things that the boy had discovered while apart from his father. But the things that really matter; the things of real consequence had been passed on from this old man.
Looking away from the bed to the floor, he began to reminisce. He remembered that, even though his father was a busy man, he was always there when the boy needed him: coaching his Little League teams, staying up all night with him to finish a school assignment that the boy had waited ‘til the last hour to start, stealing the boy away from school to play hooky on the golf course, sharing his love for words and word games, and even delivering the appropriate firm lecture or supple switch.
He remembered that his father always had close friends of every race, religion, and economic class, and he remembered that his father counted his friends as treasures.
He remembered that his father always rose above life’s misery, choosing to be joyful in spite of challenges that defeated lesser men.
And he remembered the cups of "hobo coffee" they had shared, too infrequently, over the years.
He remembered that his father always had close friends of every race, religion, and economic class, and he remembered that his father counted his friends as treasures.
He remembered that his father always rose above life’s misery, choosing to be joyful in spite of challenges that defeated lesser men.
And he remembered the cups of "hobo coffee" they had shared, too infrequently, over the years.
Most importantly the boy remembered how his father loved without holding back. How he sacrificed for those he loved, always giving if he had it to give, and sorrowing when he was unable to give; how he unashamedly wept over his loved one’s anguish, and rejoiced over their triumph; how he loved life itself, taking time to delight in the beauty of God’s creation. And how could he forget how he had loved the boy’s mother, carrying a torch for her that still burns in the innumerable love poems he had written to her.
The boy also remembered how his own spiritual journey had caused a distance to develop between them. Their love for each other had always been able to bridge this gap, but most of the boy’s adult life they had spent watching each other across the abyss. The secret that the boy held was the thing he hoped would close the gap, but feared would destroy the bridge.
As these memories washed over the boy’s mind, a new understanding dawned on him, and the secret began to take a different shape. As he yielded himself to the notion, a new conviction overtook him, and he realized he needed to voice it out loud.
Without raising his eyes, he began quietly, “I know, Dad, that our understanding of who God is and what he requires of us is different. I also realize that I’ve allowed this difference to affect our relationship in a way that you would not have chosen. Though this probably caused you pain, you always respected my belief, and never loved me less because of it. Thank you for that.”
With tears now welling in his eyes, he sighed, and confessed, “All these years I’ve been afraid to speak plainly of my faith for fear you’d feel like I was preaching to you, or judging you. I’ve hinted, and probed, but I’ve been too frightened to be completely honest. I feel badly that I didn’t trust you enough to share something with you that is so important to me. I should have known that our love could withstand it, whether or not we agreed.
But what I just now realized is that you are the one who taught me to love God. You did it by manifesting his attributes during my years at home. And when I launched out on my own, there was a void in my life that only God could fill. Because of you, it was inevitable that I should be a follower of Jesus Christ. It is important that I be here now, not in the hopes that I might save your soul. I know now that I just needed to thank you for saving mine.”
Looking back up to the bed, he discovered that his father had fallen asleep. The boy wondered how much, if any, his father had heard. Somehow the boy knew his father had known this secret all along. “Rest in peace, Dad. I love you.”
Patrick Evan Ainsworth
Patrick Evan AinsworthJanuary 13, 1933 - July 23, 2010
