How I Met My Father...

​Through my mid-20s it would have been an overstatement to say I was “close” to my dad. I lived and breathed my mom; she was my entire world and though I loved my dad, I made little room for him in my world. You see, Dad had a hot temper and hazel eyes that could cut. He could be sweet as pie or as mean as a bull. But despite his mood on any given day, he was a man full of love. 
 
Dad said “I love you” daily, but he showed love in a different way than Mom. He wasn’t the “warm” or “empathetic” father. Instead, he was the father who said what was on his mind, while staring a hole right through you. If he was mad, you knew it. If he was happy, you knew it. He was predictable and I knew his moods without ever knowing how much he loved us; I knew his moods without ever knowing him.
 
I often joke around and say that the four months between Mom and Dad’s death was the time that I “met” my father. For the first time in 28 years, I “met” a Dad who I enjoyed being around, laughing with and confiding in. For the first time, I met a Dad who I leaned on for emotional support; I met a supportive Dad who wanted to know about my day and didn't miss a single preaching engagement; I met a Dad who despite it all, made me feel like everything was going to be OK. Prior to Dad, Mom was the only one in the world who ever provided such assurance and comfort for me. Yet, the comfort was mutual.
 
From August 2016 to December 2016, I traveled home to NC from Atlanta 3-4 days a week. When I would come home my father was always waiting for me. You see, he would call ahead wanting to know the exact time I would be in town and you better believe that when I pulled up to his residence, he was ready with a ball cap, jeans and his khaki-colored jacket. Sometimes he would even have his friends or some of the employees come to my car to say “Hello.” It never failed that their “Hello” was followed by a “congratulations” of whatever accolade I’d told Dad about for the week- He could not keep good news to himself. Week after week, as Dad got in my car, he would always start complaining about how low my coupe sat to the ground as he arranged his 6-foot stature in my bucket seats. Yet, through all the complaining he would stop, stare at me and then say, “Hey baby” or “You are so beautiful” or “You make me think of my momma.”
 
Our outings were never too complex- Target, church or an occasional meeting regarding the estate. Dad never cared where we went, he just valued our time together. There were countless times we would be in the car together saying nothing at all. He would look out of the window in deep thought and I would ask, “Dad what are you thinking about?” to which he would respond “Just talking to God.” Moments later he would turn to me and say, “You look like you are thinking, Baby.”
 
When November hit, Dad was given a fatal diagnosis with only weeks to live. With this news in early November, I moved back to NC and made it my entire duty to care for and love on my Dad. Whether it was running errands for him, praying with him or simply rubbing his back as he threw up his own bile, I was committed to being there with him. He would often say, "Baby, you do so much for me" to which I would respond " It's because I love you, Deddy! There's no one I'd rather do this for." He'd smile for we both knew that even in desperate times, love would conquer all.
 
Many days I sat in his room trying to make sense of it all. How was I to reconcile or make peace with the thought of losing my Dad? After living 28 years with a Dad I did not fully appreciate, I’d finally “met” the father that I longed for; I met a father who I could joke with; I met a father who was patient and who I wanted around. I needed him so much, how could he leave me now?
 
Close family, friends and co-workers visited Dad in his last weeks of life. Countless stories were told of fond memories and exciting occurrences. I will never forget one of Dad’s co-workers who, through tears of seeing Dad’s frailty, said, “Kiya, one thing your Dad loved was his wife and kids.” As Dad listened, his co-worker told story after story about sacrifices Dad made throughout his life for our family. That’s when it all started to come together for me; that’s when I gained the understanding that the Dad that I’d fallen head over heels for in 4 months had been there my entire life; this wasn’t a “new” Dad, it was simply a new lens through which I was seeing him.
 
I’ve spent countless days trying to understand every aspect of my parents’ passing. Why did Mom go first? Why did Dad pass when he did? Though I have many unanswered questions, I know one thing for sure and that is that Mom died first as a sign of God’s amazing grace. You see, if Dad had passed first I would have never had the opportunity to apologize to him for the years of not understanding or fully appreciating him; I would have never had the opportunity to be with him and care for him; I would have never had the opportunity to “meet” my father. I thank God for gifting me the grace and opportunity to "meet" my father.