It was July 4th, 1986…a celebration of the birth of our country. My family packed up lawn chairs and walked to my cousin’s house where we would meet up with other family members for fireworks. The kids, including me, sat close to the street, we couldn’t wait for the show to begin. Behind us sat the adults, talking calmly amongst themselves and smiling at our excitement. Once the light show began I sat back and gazed in amazement. Only the older boys got to help set and clean them up, so us younger kids just sat and stared as each firework let off it’s beautiful colors and loud sounds.
After awhile I began growing weary…I could only take so much of the firecrackers, and besides, most of them were the same, flying high into the air and then making a couple loud crackles before coming back down. I looked back to see if Dad was as tired as I was but his chair was empty. He was walking home by himself, one leg dragging slowly behind the other as he was quite sick. I grew worried and felt like I needed to go with him in case something happened. My Mom encouraged me to go home…I think she wanted to go with him too, but peeling six kids from a night of fireworks and fun with their cousins would not have been an easy task. She was glad I was going.
Instead of running to catch up with Dad I stayed far enough behind to where he didn’t even know I was following him. One slow step at a time. I studied that walk. Step. Drag. What was wrong with him? Step. Drag. Why was he sick? Step. Drag. And falling down all the time? Step. Drag. Why can’t he dance anymore? Step. Drag. When will he get better? Step. Drag. I can’t wait till he gets better. Step. Drag.
He limped into the house and shut the door behind him and I snuck in quietly after. I walked through the living room, past the dining room, and stopped before stepping into my room. Mom and Dad’s room was at the end of the hall. It was dark and I waited for my eyes to adjust as I squinted to see Dad. I watched him creep over to his bed. He didn’t know I was watching when he collapsed to his knees. At first I thought he was hurt, and I froze, but then I realized he was praying. Words cannot describe what that image of my strong, unbreakable father, with his head in his hands, did to me.
At the time I was confused and sad. I hurried into my room filled with guilt because I felt in a way I had invaded his privacy. I had never seen my Dad like that before, and that night I prayed too. I wasn’t sure what to pray for. I wanted to pray for what HE was praying for, I thought it might help. I prayed that he would feel better soon.
That night I saw my Dad for what he really was. I thought he could lift the world with one hand tied behind his back. The truth is he could hardly pick up his own leg to walk. Step. Drag. I went to bed thinking my Dad was going to live forever. Step. Drag. And that night, approximately two months and twenty days before he died, Step. Drag. I watched him pray. Step. Drag. I watched my Dad plead to God for his life…on his knees, with his head in his hands. Step. Drag.