Tuesday, April 14, 2009
A Father's Gift to His Girl
A while back I left teaching after nineteen years in the classroom. An artist friend, the late great Rick Faust, drew my caricature (notice my gap between my front teeth :0)), including the tears I often shed, on a going away card. (At the bottom of the card it says "To the teacher whose tears are as big as Texas.")
Yep, I cry. I was thinking about my penchant for spillage the other day and I remembered my Pop, Walker Floyd, crying. He teared up at the end of certain movies. Said he had a sentimental heart. I’m married to a man like him in that way. John cries at almost anything moving and patriotic. I cry at anything that has soft moving music in the background. Um...yes. I'm glad elevator rides are brief. :0)
But the moment I remembered was not of my dad crying at the end of a movie. In fact, we were in church. Daddy didn’t go to church often, but we were visiting my older brother Perry and he was preaching so Dad went. I noticed him crying during the service and assumed he felt guilty about something or another.
Afterward I asked him, “Daddy why were you crying in church?”
His reply: “Well, Rob, when you are in the presence of the Spirit, what else can you do?”
I love that memory of him. Tears were a natural part of my Pop’s worship. My tear ducts are a heritage from him. People worship by sitting quietly, dancing, standing, raising hands, closing their eyes, clapping their hands or not. Why not tears?
Thank you, Pop!