Father's Day

I was exceptionally protective of my parent’s marriage as a kid. Exceptionally. There was a blind old beggar woman who sat outside the grocery store where we shopped growing up. She was shriveled and bald, usually dressed in threadbare kangas and led around by a grandkid. She was the image of pity. But even as the kid who bawled every time Fivel Moskawitz got separated from his family on the ship to America (every time), that old lady couldn’t touch my heart of stone. In fact, I couldn’t stand her. Why? Because she called my father her husband. Hobbling towards us with hand outstretched she would speak to my father in Kigiriama and say something like, “Oh my husband, my husband how can you let your wife go without food today?” And my dad would greet her respectfully and ask about her aches and pains and family while I tried to discreetly maneuver our shopping basket between them, and then he would pass her some spare change or a loaf of bread. We would go into the store and after turning back from shooting a blind beggar dirty looks, to my dismay I would always glance up to see my mother smiling.   

Sometimes, after kissing us goodnight and tucking the mosquito net around our bunk beds, my dad would pause at the bedroom door, say goodnight one more time and tell us he loved us. And occasionally one of my sisters or I would pipe up and say something funny like, “Do you love us move than DJ?” (DJ was our much-loved wart infested mongrel dog). And Papa would say yes, he loved us more than DJ. The next question, would up the ante a little. “Do you love us more than Rehema?” (Our ayah who sometimes helped out with laundry.)

“Yes, I love you more than Rehema.”

“Do you love us more than Caleb and Nathan?” (Best friends down the street.)

“Yes.”

“More than Aunt Sharon?”

“More than Aunt Sharon.”

“More than Granny?”

“Even more than Granny.”

This would go on for a while, measuring his love for us against all sorts of people and things we weren’t really concerned about. And then would come the fateful question, the real heart of the matter, slipped in at the end almost like a trick. “Do you love us more than Mama?”

Papa was always standing in the doorframe so I could never really see his face when he answered, just his form silhouetted against light from the living room. But his answer never failed, never even hesitated.

“Nope. Not more than Mama. I love her more than anyone in the world.”

And that was the end of it.

I don’t really remember any follow-up questions or explanations. We just cuddled happily under our sheets, Papa said I love you one more time and we fell asleep, secure in our little world as number two.

I don’t take for granted the immeasurable blessing of growing up as number two in my father’s life. That place has shaped my life and relationships for good in more ways than I can even imagine. On Father’s Day, after sending him a text across the world to let him know I was thinking of him I sat and cried remembering a dear friend whose father’s reckless decisions continue to break her heart wide open. I am blessed beyond measure. And I know it. I am so thankful, because in loving me second to my mother, my father gave me the key to my own first place. And from it I now look at my cherished daughter and dream of the man who will someday love her more than anyone in the world.   

Happy Father's Day Papa. And thank you for everything.