I inched along in my car, glancing at the old house with broken windows, with the wood rotting. I once lived in that white and green, frame house, 36 years-ago.
It was my parent’s home, with the odd-shaped rooms, with the garage on the right, and the carport to the side, and the giant porch in the back yard.
Seeing the house, brought back memories of biscuits, fresh from the oven, of my daddy humming, of cold dishwater in the sink, of the television blaring on a station that no one watched. With life. With noise. With laughter. And some pain. With wall heaters where we stood to warm ourselves early in the morning. With cold floors. And comfortable couches.
I remember my daddy’s smile, his way of mowing the lawn with that push mower. Of his knack of making the groceries stretch. Of his love of fishing. Of his gaze from the window in his El Camino. Of how he loved to deep fry that fish.
I remember his flannel shirt. His oily skin. His blue eyes. And his straw hat.
Not So Random Memories
I disappeared into the world where I once lived, a place which transformed my life during a hard season, during a chapter when I needed warm biscuits and humming. And laughter. And family.
I had moved from California to Texas with my firstborn son, to join my parents, to recover from loss, to heal, to find my way.
I treasure that move. Of being surrounded by love. Of resting and finding hope in my walk with God, as He loved me, as He healed my heart, and redeemed and restored my lost steps. I am ever so grateful that He gave me an earthly father who loved me greatly, too.
Some days, I miss my daddy (he died in 1997) with an a horrible ache, as if my heart is in the oven next to hot biscuits. I miss his smile. His humming. His way of looking at me as if I was his treasure.
In those moments, I feel like a small girl, longing for her daddy’s embrace and his lap. But I must settle for those memories (nuggets of gold) of his love instead—which send to me thinking of his way of greeting the day. Of his ability to bring a calmness to my heart just by being in the same room with me.
As I took that trip down memory lane, I blinked and the house was still empty and in ruins. I felt like a ‘ghost’ of a girl who wanted her daddy back. But at the same time, I have loved my life-journey, of watching, of living, of enduring, of trusting God for each new year. Of serving God. Of knowing my daddy would be proud of who I’ve become.
It’s just that sometimes, in life, you want your daddy to sit with you at breakfast, to pass you the jam for your biscuits, to drink coffee with you. To hum. To smile. To warm your day.
So on some days, you drive past the old house to remember “not to” forget “to” remember him. He was one of a kind and he was my … daddy. You would have loved him and his humming! And his biscuits!