Feeling Loved

Sunday morning I was performing some emergency triage on Mark's church shoes with black shoe polish.  I started thinking about my dad who has gone to church every Sunday with perfectly polished cowboy boots for as long as I can remember.

I started thinking about a time when I was maybe 14 and my dad was teaching my Sunday School class at church.  He had one long leg crossed over the other and one of the boys in the class asked him what was on the bottom of his boot.

He said, "A patch."

The boy asked, "Why?"

My dad simply said, "Because I have a hole in my boot," and he went on teaching the lesson.

I had no idea.

I was sitting in the class with likely a new pair of shoes on my feet.  When I needed new shoes, I got them.  My parents were the ones that went without, not their children.

But we didn't realize, didn't appreciate.  I think that's the way it goes.  Perhaps if we understood the extent of our parents' love and sacrifice and our indebtedness all at once, we'd be too overwhelmed.

So in bits and pieces, we learn.  We discover ways they've taught us, served us, helped us, worn patched boots.

And on a Sunday morning, years later, we remember.  And feel grateful.

my dad