This is a journal entry of mine from a few weeks ago.
Typed here, because it felt fitting of this Holiday.
***
Monday, May 26, 2014
Tonight, I turned the corner into my parent's room, opening my mouth to say something, and stopped abruptly on the threshold. Like so many nights of my life, I saw my father knelt over the side of his bed, caught up in prayer.
The scene is familiar. His boots have been set out at the end of his bed, waiting for the cold before dawn, when they'll be slipped on again, over clean wool socks. His jeans are sun-worn to the point that they're more white than blue. especially at the knees. His plaid green shirt, just as faded, has sleeves to the wrist. and even though it's been through the wash a hundred times, i know that if i hugged him, my face would nuzzle his shoulder and the shirt would carry the smell of the August sun and the vineyard's sand.
He wears hats most days, but the back of his neck is so many shades darker than the rest of him that i know the sun must sneak in between the brim and his collar.
My eyes move to his head and i smirk because his hair is thinning in the back, and the front near his ears is more salt than pepper these days. my grin levels as his hands come into focus. they're folded in front of his face so i can only see his eyebrows - furrowed and fuzzy - and his lips - chapped and thick from the sun. I know behind his hands are piercing slate-colored eyes that can brew when angry or dance as he laughs.
His hands have my attention again. I don't have to touch them to feel them. I know every curve and callous. Each week in church as a child i'd distract myself by making him play quiet hand games with me; 'the little church and steeple', and a game i'd made up. I'd move my index and middle finger around his palm as if they were legs. I'd pretend my hand-person was at a swimming pool, and my Dad's fingers were the diving boards. But each week, at some point during the games i'd forget what i was playing and just look at his hands.
They were giant compared to mine. his are thick with muscle. Dark, like his neck, and leathered from the sun. I'd run my fingers - long, childish, slender from piano practice and holding a paintbrush - over his. They were strong and wide, perfect for a farmer. They are covered in callouses, even the sides of his fingers and the center of his palm. I frown at all the cracks. especially the ones on the sides of his thumbs; deep, painful to even look at. the softest part of his hands is under his wedding ring.
I wonder how many vines he's tied.
How many he's pruned.
His hands are rough as sand paper, but they move gently. when he reaches up to smooth his hair; when he rests a hand on his chin, index finger over his lips in thought; when he hold's my mother's hand or rubs her back.
His hands built our house, and they made it a home. They braided my hair before bedtime as mom read softly from Tolkien or Lewis. they press lightly on the top of my head as he gives me a blessing at the start of a school year. they look meek when they pass the Sacrament. they pull me into a long, choked up embrace when my heart feels split.
His hands are cracked and weathered, but they are kind. and worthy. and safe.
All of that rushes over me in a whirl of a second.
I feel like i am interrupting something intimate, because i am. I know, because I've heard him pray everyday of my life, that when my father prays it is not a passing thing. it is an act of humility and love and a petition for understanding and guidance. It is a conversation between a Father and son.
admiration, love, and gratitude well up in me as i quietly turn back in the hall, smiling at that father of mine. and that Father of ours that gave mine to me.
Melissa Michiale 11:25 pm 5-26-14
***
and a video that i made about us, too:
Happy Father's Day, Pop.
you're my hero.
I'm crying:) I LOVE this. I am so grateful for your amazing talent of writing!!
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