When I am four
I pretend to be asleep in the car
So you will carry me into the house.
A few years later,
I ride along with you to
Ball games,
Farm equipment stores,
And sometimes hospitals
Where you take an elevator up
To sit with or pray with someone,
While I read and wait next to
Flower shop carnations.
When I am little
You read me stories,
And hold my hands while I
Jump the waves, before I learn
How to swim.
You teach me
How to play catch,
Maneuver a wheelbarrow of silage,
Tug the pull cord to start up the lawn mower.
You show me how to
Keep my bearings,
Read a roadmap,
Check oil and coolant levels.
Ice rattles in the thermos,
I walk it out to you.
The air smells sweet of mown hay.
You climb down from the tractor,
Sweat-drenched from
Many rounds in the hot field.
Front screen door slams
We step out into
Summer’s unbroken drought.
Wind rattles shriveled corn leaves
While you study the horizon,
Hoping for rain.
I glimpse you leaning back in your chair,
Deep in thought at your desk.
A fluorescent light shining
On piles of Bible commentaries
And a yellow legal pad you’ve
Scrawled with sermon notes.
Although I sit for 18 years
Of Sundays, listening to you preach
From Bible passages,
I do not remember
You giving lectures or
Speeches to us at home.
But I know you
Pray for your children
By name.
By example
Is how you teach.
You sit down when company comes,
Aiming to welcome and put at ease.
You enjoy people.
You ask questions and listen to the answers.
You share stories, but rarely opinions.
You find common ground,
Talk to people about
What interests them.
You tell your favorite jokes,
The ones your wife and children
Have long ago memorized.
You laugh and pull out
Your handkerchief,
Wiping your eyes.
In public and private,
The same man:
Farmer,
Pastor,
Husband,
Father,
Neighbor,
Brother,
Friend.
