In five months our nation will celebrate Thanksgiving, but I choose today, Father’s Day, to thank my Heavenly Father for all the things, both good and bad, that He has done for me. I especially thank Him for giving me the opportunity to know and love my dad for a long time. Dad suffered a stroke and died the latter part of July 1985. I remember his age, 86, but the date of his death always evades me. Why? I’m not sure. I remember flying to Brownsville from DFW airport to help my family with funeral arrangements. After laying my father to rest; my dear, now deceased, oldest brother told me that a plane had crashed at DFW airport. I recall that day, August 2, 1985, but not when my dad died. Greif stricken from losing my father, I did not fear hopping on a plane to return to Fort Worth. All I could think of was losing Dad.

Dad was up by 5 every morning to eat his regular breakfast: a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal furnished with raisins and cinnamon. He always made a pot of coffee, drank some and filled a thermos with the remainder. “I’m off to the shop,” he’d say to the rest of us who were still sleeping. It was very early, about 6:00 a. m.

His clapboard shop, an American dream, was painted white. A large tree provided shade and proudly protected the shop from the suns’s rays and storms, but not from the flooding that regularly occurred on the street when it rained. At the top of the shop, Dad’s name and the words “Repair Shop” appeared in large, black, block letters. In addition, a cobalt blue metal sign protruding from the wall indicated that he had a public phone for patrons and for his own use. He also had a coke machine so customers could enjoy a cold drink while they waited for the repair of their lawn mowers or other items. Since the shop was not air conditioned, I can imagine how difficult it must have been for my father to repair items and to operate the machines he used to sharpen the enormous blades of the city’s lawnmowers.

But my birthplace grew and companies competed with Dad’s small business. My father wasn’t earning enough money. His income came from friends and neighbors. He always gave them a discount. The shop slowly began to deteriorate. It needed a paint job. Broken window panes that were either destroyed by storms or neighborhood kids had to be repaired as conditions in our underpriveleged neighborhood worsened.

When I started to earn a living, I hoped Dad would stop working. He didn’t need to take care of me, Mom, or my siblings. I wanted him to rest. He deserved it. I told a friend about this, and his response was: “His job is what keeps him alive.” It took me years to understand my friend’s comment. Eventually, I learned that my disciplined father had taught me that life’s inconveniences, such as pain, illness, and age would not keep me from achieving my goals.

Through the years, my husband and I helped Mom and my sister as much as possible to keep the shop from collapsing, but we were barely starting to make a living and didn’t have the resources to be of much help. One day our city demanded the shop had to be razed, and Dad’s dreams of making it in America disintegrated. I thanked God because neither my dad nor I witnessed the destruction of his prized possession. On Memorial Day, May 25, 2020, my husband and I visited Mom and Dad at the cemetery.  I thanked them for being excellent role models and for taking care of me. The visit ended with the hopes of seeing them again.

Today should be a happy day; therefore, I ask our Heavenly Father to give strength and pleasant memories to folks who have lost their fathers so they can truly have a Happy Father’s Day. To folks who still have their fathers, I sincerely wish you a “Happy Father’s Day!”