My Father, Who Art in Heaven

She saw a painting in a shop one day of a majestic wolf. She was interested enough in it to inquire about the price.

My mother had been working night shifts at the Post Office, and it was rough on her.

There she sat on the couch, looking dejected, with her coffee mug clenched between her small hands. She had bags under her eyes. It was afternoon, and she had just woken up to get ready for work.

A few moments later my father came home, lunch pail in one hand and the wolf painting in the other. “I picked you up a little something on the way home from work,” he said.

“Eddie,” she replied, crying, “We can’t afford this.”

“Don’t worry,” my father said with a grin. “I charged it.”

This was just one small example of how my father showed his love and appreciation for my mother. It was a moment I would never forget.

I received an email yesterday asking if Ed and I would mind trading shifts with a few other church greeters. The problems with this email? The church was in Arkansas, and as I replied to the sweet lady who inquired, the only Ed I knew was my deceased father.

My father often comes to me in dreams. Most recently, he was helping to move me out of what looked like a college dorm room, even though everyone insisted that I was still in high school. He was carrying my daughter’s comforter, which is decorated in colorful hearts.

My daughter never had the opportunity to meet my father. He passed away from a sudden heart attack in 2002. He was buried a month after we celebrated his 53^rd birthday. She hears so many fond stories about him that she cries about never meeting him.

Violet reminds me of my father in many ways. She is able to start a conversation with anyone, much like my Dad. No matter which public venue we found ourselves in, my father would come out of his shell to have pleasant conversations with other people.

My father is the only person I ever met who truly loved his job. He was a carrier for the U.S. Postal Service for almost thirty years. Though he had his share of gripes and dog bites, he sincerely loved providing good customer service and was friends with many people on his route.

Beside his family and the Postal Service, Eddie also had another great love of his life: baseball. He was on three softball teams the year he passed away. Every Christmas we bought him new memorabilia of the Yankees or baseball in general. He was buried with his softball glove, and the back of his tombstone bears the Yankee symbol.

I miss my father every day, but I am so fortunate to have so many wonderful memories of a great and very humble person. Thank you, Dad, for showing me the true meaning of the word “gentleman.”