Mom's code for, "Can't talk now, the kids are in the room." I was raised by a blind mother. Wait, reverse that, I was raised by a mother ... who was blind. She taught me to look at life through the eyes of faith.
Today would have been my father's 96th birthday. I've been thinking about him and our family and can't recall ever celebrating his birthday. That seems odd. I must have simply forgotten because I can't imagine my mother not wishing him a happy birthday.
Mom was widowed young so would have only had 19 birthdays with him, those last 5 being in the hospital. I wonder about that last birthday. Did we visit Dad on his birthday? Did we sing to him even though by that time dementia had turned us into strangers? And by us, I mean Mom and I. My brother never visited our father in the hospital.
Well I'm sure she wished him a happy birthday. I think it's in the fine print of the vows and Mom was faithful to her wedding vows. Maybe sometime today she sang to him the birthday song she began singing when I was an adult. "A happy birthday to you, a happy birthday to you. Every day of the year may you find Jesus near. A happy birthday to you, a happy birthday to you and the best you have ever had." Jesus is very near to both of them now.
Happy birthday Daddy. See you soon. (And by soon I am referring to the word used in the Bible translated as soon but means suddenly and unexpectedly.)
I wanted to share with you today that I have started another blog. It's called When My Father Wakes Up and I am using it to promote my memoir and to share testimonies. This week I had a post from the Prodigal's Son Mother's point of view. But don't leave yet. The link is at the end so please keep reading.
I've always said that this is a good time to publish the memoir because it can't hurt anybody. But the more I think about it, when it comes to my mother there's nothing to hurt. She was a strong woman of faith who prayed for her son daily. Daily. Sad to say, I'm not that committed. What I mean is I don't say a specific prayer over my children at a specific time daily. I don't have a worn out prayer rug. (A reference to one of my favorite stories in a book belonging to my father). My children are always on my heart. Jesus knows my heart from the inside out. He sees each tear I cry over them. He sees each proud moment stored over their boldness of faith, even if that boldness is in the past. He sees each glimmer of hope. He knows my heart from the inside out because I gave it to Him when I was little. Now I just need to learn to share it with Him more regularly.