I am writing this column on Father’s Day.I intended to write on another subject, but came across what I consider a beautiful poem, entitled My Dad.
I don’t know who wrote it or where I got it, but I think it is well worth quoting even though it will not be printed until well after Father’s Day.
Every day is Father’s Day. We give fatherhood a special remembrance once a year, lest we forget the beauty, wonder and significance of being God’s instrument in passing on the gift of life to another generation.
During a recent homily, I quoted this poem and could not help noticing a few in the congregation who could not hide their tears. I must admit that my own voice quavered somewhat as the words brought back memories of my own dad, who went off to his reward 50 years ago – in August 1949.
MY DAD
My Dad was 82 last week and he’s getting tired and old.
And lately he leans on the table a lot and he seems to feel the cold.
He used to go for a walk at night or potter about in the shed.
But now while we bustle about and chat, he slips upstairs to bed.
He used to be head of the house – no more! He’s got awfully quiet and meek.
Sure this is the man as I see him now – he was 82 last week!
How I remember when I was a boy, the times we spent together,
how he’d lift me up with a sweep of his arm and hold me aloft like a feather.
We’d pretend to fight or he’d make me a kite or dress for a laugh like Nero.
There never was anyone like my Dad. He was my boyhood hero!
In summer he’d swim like a big brown fish, so fast and smooth and sleek.
But it’s 10 years now since he went to the sea – he was 82 last week!
Those wonderful Sundays I spent with him as we prayed in the church together,
for God was always first in his life, in spite of work or weather.
But life moves on and my boyhood’s gone and the days before him are bleak.
His work is done and his songs are sung – he was 82 last week.
Some nights when I slip upstairs to his room, we talk of old times together –
when his heart was young and his arm was strong and he’d lift me up like a feather.
The man who gave me his golden years –
the years that so swiftly sped –
how grateful he is for that short half hour that I spend beside his bed.
And sometimes I turn my head away as a tear rolls down my cheek
My boyhood hero is passing on.
