“The nut didn’t fall too far from that tree.” “You look just like your father.” These and other similar statements filled my youth. They never bothered me. The truth is, I bear a marked semblance to my father. If you were to see pictures of us at the same age, you would note similar genetic heritage, down to our currently balding pates. We are not unusual in this. Everyone knows people who share physical traits with their parents. It is all part of the wondrous mystery of creation. Yet, recently, I’ve noticed an oddly comforting facet of my genetic predilection.
In my mind, my father remains fixed at an indeterminate age between forty-five and fifty-five. I do not know why. I know how old my father is and am thankful for his hale and hearty constitution and all that it portends for me. Whatever the reason, when I think of my father that is the picture that pops up on the screen of my mind. And I see it more and more frequently these days.
Every now and then, I catch my father looking over my shoulder. He seems to be watching me more closely these days. He’s quite adept and keeping a low profile. He rarely shows himself. Most of the time I catch a brief glimpse out of the corner of my eye. But, now and then, when I least expect him he shows up, sometimes in rather startling ways.
For most of my adult life, I served in the Army, necessitating a clean shave and very short hair. I also enjoyed a very limited choice in attire. My father, a history professor at Abilene Christian University (ACU), wore a sport-coat and tie to work almost every day. He sported a beard, as soon as ACU, then Abilene Christian College (ACC), relaxed their grooming standards. Our differing careers submerged similarity beneath fatigues, tweeds, and leather elbow patches. Now, retired from the Army and pursuing a second career as a teacher…go figure…the similarity has resurfaced. Nowadays, when I catch my reflection in a window, glass door, or another reflective surface, my father looks back at me. And it’s not just an outward similarity.
I find my father’s thoughts and beliefs exerting a strong influence on my daily walk. Some of it arises from similar career choices. My father taught, I teach. But, it runs much more deeply than a simple career choice. I find my father’s beliefs pulling at me, like some mysterious orb of super-heavy material. Slowly, inexorably, I drift inward, finding comfortable thought patterns and paths. More than I care to admit, I hear his voice echoing in my classroom. He snuck into my room, stocking it with volumes of history, literature, photographs, and sundry educational materials. Strangely, I find his hand annotating my books and lesson plans. He edits my reading list, scholastic and personal. His ideas regarding teaching, even daily living compete with my own, often prevailing. His is the quiet voice that whispers urgently in quiet reflection, “Don’t forget to…” Unrelentingly, my father influences what I do and how I do it. A pernicious presence, he watches and follows my daily activities, often showing up when I do not expect it.
If my father were an abject failure or a dark twisted influence this would be a grim essay; however, he overcame a variety of challenges, growing into a Godly man, faithful husband, and excellent father. So I do not mind, or resist, his sway. Each day, during my prayer and meditation, I offer thanks for a good father who remains active in my life. He still watches over me. He thinks he’s sly. But periodically I catch a glimpse of him furtively checking up on my progress toward manhood. And, I find his presence comfortable.
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