I Love You, Dad

If God can work through me, he can work through anyone.

-St. Francis of Assisi

I met a man who came to Tampa for his father's funeral. Father and son

hadn't seen each other in years. In fact, according to the son, his fat

her had left when he was a boy, and they had had little contact until a

bout a year ago, when his father had sent him a birthday card with a no

te saying he'd like to see his son again.

After discussing a trip to Florida with his wife and children and consu

lting his busy schedule at his office, the son tentatively set a date t

o visit his father two months later. He would drive his family down whe

n school was out for vacation. He scribbled a note and with mixed emoti

ons, dropped it in the mail.

He heard back immediately. Written on lined paper torn from a spiral no

tebook, such as a schoolboy would use, were words of excitement penned

in a barely legible scrawl. Misspelled words, poor grammar and incorrec

t punctuation bounced off the page. The man was embarrassed for his fat

her. He thought twice about the upcoming visit.

It just so happened that the man's daughter made the cheerleading squad

at her school and had to go to a camp conducted for cheering technique

s. Coincidentally, it started the week after school was out. The trip t

o Florida would have to be postponed.

His father said he understood, but the son didn't hear from him again f

or some time. A note here or there, an occasional call. They didn't say

much-muttered sentences, comments about "your mother," a couple of clo

uded stories about the man's childhood-but it was enough to put togethe

r a few of the missing pieces.

In November the son received a call from his father's neighbor. His fat

her had been taken to the hospital with heart problems. The son spoke w

ith the charge nurse, who assured him his father was doing well followi

ng a heart attack. The doctor could provide details.

His father said, "I'm fine. You don't have to make a trip out here. The

doctor says there was minor damage, and I can go home day after tomorr

ow."

He called his father every few days after that. They chatted and laughe

d and talked about getting together "soon." He sent money for Christmas

. His father sent small gifts for his children and a pen and pencil set

for his son. It was a cheap set, probably purchased at a discount phar

macy or variety-type store, and the kids tossed their tokens from Grand

pa aside without much notice. But his wife received a precious music bo

x made of crystal. Overwhelmed, she expressed her gratitude to the old

man when they called him on Christmas Day. "It was my mother's," the ol

d man explained. "I wanted you to have it."

The man's wife told her husband that they should have invited the old m

an for the holidays. As an excuse for not having done so, she added, "B

ut it probably would be too cold for him here, anyway.?/P>

In February, the man decided to visit his father. As luck would have it

, however, his boss's wife had to have an operation, and the man had to

fill in and work a few extra hours. He called his father to tell him h

e'd probably get to Florida in March or April.

I met the man on Friday. He had finally come to Tampa. He was here to b

ury his father.

He was waiting when I arrived to open the door that morning. He sat in

the chapel next to his father's body, which had been dressed in a hands

ome, new, navy blue pinstriped suit and laid out in a dark blue metal c

asket. "Going Home" was scripted inside the lid.

I offered the man a glass of water. He cried. I put my arm around his s

houlder and he collapsed in my arms, sobbing. "I should have come soone

r. He shouldn't have had to die alone." We sat together until late afte

rnoon. He asked if I had something else to do that day. I told him no.

I didn't choose the act, but I knew it was kind. No one else came to ho

nor the life of the man's father, not even the neighbor he spoke of. It

cost nothing but a few hours of my time. I told him I was a student, t

hat I wanted to be a professional golfer, and that my parents owned the

funeral home. He was an attorney and lived in Denver. He plays golf wh

enever he can. He told me about his father.

That night, I asked my dad to play golf with me the next day. And befor

e I went to bed, I told him, "I love you, Dad."

- Nick Curry III, age 19
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