Just enough to get by on

It is that time again; I know it is because I am feeling guilty. When was the last time I visited my father? Was it two weeks ago? A month? Is he keeping track? Why is it that I struggle to go and visit with him? He is old, I am busy, the visit is an obligation, and it means interrupting more pressing matters and entering into wandering conversations. It isn’t that his words are irrelevant; in fact, I am, on some level, challenged by what he says.

Walking to his room, I glance at the clock; in my ordinary day, I can’t keep up with the clock, yet here I am aware of each tick of the hand. There he is; he grasps both of my hands when he greets me, which only makes me feel worse. When he does that, I am reminded of who he really is, not was. It reminds me that he has not gone away while I have been away. My sporadic visits are always welcomed, and I am profoundly aware of my neglect. He doesn’t dwell on it. In fact, he speaks the first words and asks if I have noticed the weather or if the trees are being pruned yet.

Nature has always been a great fascination of his. He was always an amazing gardener, and he can go on and on talking about the trees, flowers and fruits that are in or out of season. One day, he pointed out some daisies growing across the way. You’d think they were the first he’d seen. He fussed over them, and that led to conversations about his first garden and all his gardening attempts over the years. How can you remember the first daisy you’ve grown and then think these are so unique? That is the way my father is, always delighting in old things as if they are new and new things as if they are totally familiar. He sees something I do not see.

Today, like every other time, we sit and I talk. I ramble on and wonder why I enjoy talking about myself so much and why he seems so interested; that is how it goes. I think he is too “ancient” to understand the maze of the real world; when I listen, though, he is strangely aware and insightful. As I look around, I see that my father is content, and everything around him is in order. How contrary to my own world. I feel that our visits are like a collision of opposites: He is restful, and I am weighed down; he is at peace, and I have a furrowed brow; he can laugh, and I am too nervous to.

I mentally put a check on my calendar marking this visit. The unwritten code is to visit enough to deem my efforts “regular”. I wonder if he is aware of my system.

“Well,” I say, and it signals the end of our visit.

“That’s it then?” he says.

I am about to say, “I will come again soon,” like I do every time, but today something stops me: It is my reflection in a mirror. What I see is most disturbing; it is I who have aged and not he. He has grown younger while my shoulders have become stooped. Everything about him is new, new every morning. The realization is convicting: He has not been lonely, waiting for me; it is I who have been lonely and alone.

We say it at the same time: “Why?” – and I do not have a good reason. While I have visited my father only enough to get by, I have neglected a great strength; I have disregarded mercies to my own detriment.

And this is how I marked my journal on January 31, 2001, when I realized I had put God in a rest home.

Mike and Teresa Klassen are senior pastor couple of Sunridge Community Church in Kelowna, B.C.