My Daddy My Hero

My father was my childhood hero, a picture of unreserved love. My earliest memory is of Daddy rocking me in a straight back chair, feeling the back and forth, thumping motion while he sang “Bringing In The Sheaves.” With few photos of my childhood, I have little to trigger long ago memories, but many are etched on my heart forever.

When I was about five years old, Daddy would sometimes wake me before daylight so I could go with him to deliver milk to the dairy in town. The owner let me watch the automated system fill glass bottles with milk then pop a paper seal on top. 

When it came time to till the garden, Daddy would often let me ride on the horse’s broad back while he guided a handheld plow behind, always singing a beloved hymn. He loved music and led the singing in our little country church. 

Daddy taught me how to tie my shoes, spit watermelon seeds, and drive an ancient truck in hay fields and on dusty, country roads long before I was old enough to drive. When I was ten, I tried shaking peanuts and picking cotton with my brother. I made two cents the whole day. Daddy laughed, then bragged about my tenacity. 

Throughout my life he assured me I could do anything I set my mind to if I worked hard enough. However, he didn’t adjust well to my leaving for college to do that. Once, when I had been gone too many weekends, Daddy showed up at my dorm to take me home. 

My first Christmas after marriage was one of my hardest with my husband, Carl overseas for the past nine months. I loved being at my parents’ home with lots of family, but became so sad that I quietly closed myself in a dark bedroom, collapsed on the bed and cried. Soon, Daddy slipped into the room, gathered me in his arms and cried along with me. No words. Just tears. 

I’m so thankful God gifted me with such a wonderful father. He loved Jesus. Loved family. And he’s now singing with the angels in heaven. Blessed!