Sentimental Journey

To say my dad was a quiet man was a bit of an understatement. He seemed to pace himself – moving slowly and thoughtfully through life and in conversation. For him, the conversation might mean a cheeky word here and there, a simple grunt, or a short yet thought-provoking insight that always seemed surprising because he engaged little.

Dad began his working life as a dairy farmer but later became a highly skilled yet low-paid storeman. He took a massively disorganized and messy warehouse and re-structured it into what could have been both a librarian’s and surgeon’s dream, for he knew exactly what was in there and where it could be found, and I could have roller-skated around that concrete warehouse floor yet never hit a single pebble or speck of dirt. Believe me, I thought about it often but never dared to ask.

I recall seeing my dad move fast only three times in my life.

The time when my sister and I snuck down without mum to watch dad bring in the cows for milking and at the last minute he saw us hiding in the long grass by the cowshed.

The time when dancing around the dead leaf piles I’d been raking up I mistakenly landed on the up-turned prongs of the rake lying hidden among them where I’d dumped it.

The day of my wedding when I’d called for him before leaving on my honeymoon.

Each occasion had him moving at the speed of light for various reasons.

Unknown to us, the more than temperamental and frankly vicious Jersey bull was with the cows, and we girls were sitting ducks.

At my screaming for help, he leapt from the veranda over six steps racing the distance of the large garden to extract the steel prongs from out of my foot and rush me to medical care.

To embrace me in a hug so tight I could hardly breathe while telling me how beautiful I was and how proud I’d made him that day – getting the words in before I had the chance to tell him he’d made me so proud too.

Dad knew when speed was of the essence, but I have since understood he also knew when to go slow. I’ve been on a sentimental journey thinking about this a lot lately.

For two years before I married, I travelled back and forth to work with Dad. It wasn’t all that far and sometimes I push-biked, but on the many days we went together, he told me to be ready to leave by seven am.

Sitting side by side on the little van’s front seats, he didn’t say much. Rather, he said very little. And because of his silence, I struggled for words and did the same. For someone whose school report often read “talks too much . . .” this was quite a feat.

In two years, we did not cover any topics. Not one. I quietly chaffed at the slowness and the silence and wanted to hurry the trip along, but Dad inched along the road. Reaching my destination with relief, I would jump out with a wave, and he would faithfully be waiting to pick me up at the end of the day. We would retrace our journey home with ‘How was your day?’ and one-word answers which quickly morphed back into silence. He was a hard nut to crack.

Until my last day travelling with him before getting married.

Halfway into the journey, he finally spoke up and I could not mistake the sorrow and emotion that coated his words.

“I guess this will be the last time you and I will be going to work together.”

With tears, I realized how much he enjoyed it. That maybe he travelled with intentional slowness to eke time out with his daughter – even if it was in silence. It was a wonder for me. In that one sentence, I discovered I was cherished.

But the regret of wasting that precious time grew into seeking him out. Alone. Coffee on the back porch steps and asking questions. Leaning on fenceposts and gazing out together over open spaces. Finding out who he was and what he had wanted for his life. He wanted to hear me as well although I learned he had gleaned more about me in his quietness than in me telling him.

I discovered my dad was about duty. Family. Providing for them. I discovered he had given up his dreams of travelling as a young man when his father died suddenly, helping out his mother with his younger siblings’ care which he then continued doing the same for his own family later.

When we built our shed, I wanted my dad to help alongside Gareth’s father and brother.

We didn’t know if there would be much for him to do, but it became one of the best weeks I’ve ever had as we worked side by side – him cheering me on up a ladder while passing me pink batts and quiet chats over cups of tea.

His cheeky grin and quick dry quips dotted conversations each night as we all sat in deck chairs in the middle of a paddock at the end of the day, enjoying a drink and watching the sun go down.

These are such cherished memories.

I found out more about my father in his remaining years than all the time spent living under the same roof.

The same can be said of my Heavenly Father.

I went to church for many years before I intentionally sought time alone with Him.

Sitting in church taught me of His undeniable existence.

Spending time with Him has brought me into a relationship with Him that is not hindered by my time and space.

One where I know He yearns to spend time alone with all His sons and daughters more than anything.

To inch intentionally down the road with them. To hear their voices. To provide for them. To guide them through life. To rescue them. And to hold them tight and tell them how much He loves them, even when their choices are less than His best for them and call them home again when they’ve gone astray. I know this because He has done this with me. Many, many times.

No matter where you are or who you are, God loves you. He might seem silent but if you haven’t been in touch for a while or ever, He’s just waiting for you to speak up. Don’t have regrets of wasted time, just go seek him out – that you won’t regret. Ever.

See you on the road.

PD Dawn. xx

because of mercy, Christian writer, Fathers, pddawn