My Father

My Father

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by Monica Sarabura, Guest Blogger
Every adult has stories about their parents, and quirks particular to their own families.  I think that these quirks translate into fond feelings and warm memories once our parents are gone.
My Dad died in August, 15 years ago.  Every year on the anniversary of his death I take the day to remember him, and to miss him.
What I remember about him is what some people would call insignificant.  I remember that he constantly hummed.  I remember that he always twirled his thumb and forefinger.  He hated rice.  He loved reading.  He adored my mother.
I never focus on what he actually accomplished. I don’t dwell on his choice of career.  His opinion about our country and about our political system just don’t matter any more, and believe me, he had very strong opinions.
What does still matter to me, and what I miss the most about him are the things that just wouldn’t matter to anyone else — only to me and my 6 siblings.  Does this mean that his life didn’t have a
meaning?  Was he less of a person because he was just an English teacher and not a rich or powerful man in the eyes of society?
My Dad was rich and powerful.  He left all his wealth to me —his love of knowledge, his love of family, his desire to be a good and righteous man.
He left all his power to me also.  The power to make informed, educated decisions based on careful thought.  The power to be a good person (at least most of the time).  The power to set a Christian example of standing up for those maligned.
I have wealth and power from my Father.  I have memories.  And most of all, I have love, which never dies.  I am so rich, and so powerful.  What more could my father have left me?