| Dad's Boots |
I gently held my father’s hand while sittin’ near his bed, strokin’ soft the white hair now unruly on his head. His boots sat in the corner all rough an’ weather-worn, remindin’ me of all the ways he taught me without scorn. Just sittin’ at our table each night when day was thru’, bowin’ tired an’ weary head to give our Lord His due. His risin’ every mornin’ ‘fore hearin’ rooster’s crow, gettin’ chores done early ‘cause he had some fields to sow. Workin’ hard for little, but always takin’ pride in what he could accomplish for his children an’ his bride. Not complainin’—not unloadin’ the worries he might have ‘bout the weather, nor the plowin’, or nursin’ sickly calves. His boots bring back old memories, sittin’ there so still, as if the man who walked in them had fin’lly lost his will. But, if I know my dad at all, his spirit will live on in the lives of all his children with each an’ every dawn. We’ll start our day like he did— with purpose in each step, be honest in our dealin’s, not excusin’ any debt. Those boots are lined an’ wrinkled just like his weathered face— he meets God now with dignity, and honor—no disgrace. Tamara Hillman ©2006 |