Tuesday, August 13, 2013

My Father's Voice

As a little girl, when Sunday School was over, I'd dash to my parents' class, 
reach on my tippy toes to sneak some sugar cubes from their refreshment table then make 
my way through a jungle of tall people until I finally reached my dad, who would  pick me up with his strong arms. Back then, all the men wore dark-colored suits. Once after searching for a while, I found a pair of legs  I was sure were my father's. Hugging this leg tightly and fully expecting to find the rest of my father attached to it, I looked up only to discover it was not my daddy after all! 

What eventually would lead me to my father was his loud, booming voice. His laughter permeated the room far above that of any other noise, and that inevitably drew me to him.

Even when I became adult with children of my own, I'd hear my father's laugh in the church sanctuary and know he was there, which I always found comforting.

A strong voice, a thundering laugh. A sound that could be heard above the others. That was my father's voice.

Was. I say that because he broke his neck after falling from a roof.  He became completely paralyzed from his neck down and relied on a ventilator to supply his every breath. Being unable to move at all was harsh enough, but for the first two months following his injury, he also could not speak. 

I learned to read lips. Each day that I would enter his hospital room, I was 
able to see him mouth out "I love you" one more time. I read statements such 
as "Unbelievable," "Why?" "I will never move again," but the most memorable 
and important to me was, "I love you." That, followed by a strong kiss on 
my hand from him left me more than grateful for each visit, for each day. My 
dad thought he was useless at times, but he was giving out blessings right 
there from his hospital bed.

Funny. He had no voice, yet I was listening more intently than ever. 
"Dad," I would ask, "are you still the richest man in the world?" (as he 
claimed to be before his accident).

"I am," his lips would mouth silently.


Months later, after therapists had worked much with his equipment,  the day came 
that he was able to speak. With only my mom and a hospital worker 
present, the words he chose were, "Jesus loves me.  This I know."

So many messages are heard by us when we travel dark roads, when tragedy 
threatens to take over our lives. Without a doubt, the "Why me?" creeps in. 
Questions prevail about God's goodness or lack of it. Blaming others, 
blaming self. Messages of our own uselessness and helplessness can cripple 
us inside and leave us believing lies above the truth. 

Through all the times of questioning and doubt, however, there's a father's 
voice in the room. It leads you to Him, the One who will pick you up with 
His strong, welcoming arms. A persistent voice, one that we need to hear 
above all the others, saying, "I love you. This one thing I long for you to know." A 
voice that leads you straight to where you belong. There's no mistaking it. 
It's the voice of your father. Do you hear Him? 

Diane Mann