In church this morning Jeff and I sat behind 2 older gentlemen. We’ve sat behind them before. One of the men is quite elderly and seems fragile. When we stand up, I always feel myself preparing catch him should he stumble.
This morning it strikes me just how much this man resembles my father. I notice the pattern of his balding grey hair, so like dad’s.
His thin shoulders are stooped and rounded. I can hear mom say “John, sit up straight!”

I observe his carefully crossed legs; his knees seem large in contrast to the skinny legs. When it is time to stand for the reading of the gospel, I watch him unwind his legs, grasp the back of the bench in front of him and with determination rise. This too reminds me of dad. He was a stubborn and determined Dutch man. Out of principal, respect for tradition, he too would have stood, even though it was difficult for him and remaining seated would have been perfectly acceptable.
After the reading, we sit again. I watch as he turns slightly to one side then recrosses his legs. It’s all so familiar. As he folds his hands over his knee Ithink about dad’s hands. The wrinkled skin stretched over large knuckles, pale fingertips, thick ropey veins.

I remember all the things dad fixed with those hands. He was the local television repairman; he was brilliant at it. Dad had keen problem-solving mind, possessing an ability to unravel problems others couldn’t. His creative intelligence extended far beyond his technical expertise. He would painstakingly glue fragile vases and other treasures and trinkets back together. When a toy was broken, our children knew to bring to grandpa for repair. It seemed he could repair anything. He was so reliable and successful at this that by the time my eldest children were preschool aged, they were calling him “Grandpa Fixit.”

I am spellbound as I continue to observe this man. Memories of my dad fill my mind. I think that it would not surprise me if he turned around and smiled dad’s special mischievous smile.
I lean close to Jeff and whisper, “The man in front of me reminds me so much of dad.” He nods in agreement.

Then I begin to cry as grief springs to up from its hidden place. I miss him so much. I try to stem the flow, but the tears won’t stop. Jeff squeezes my hand in support and solidarity. Then he reaches into his pocket and offers me a neatly folded bandana print handkerchief. I try to discreetly catch the tears as they spill out. Honestly, I’m also trying not to smear mascara across my face.

Slowly I tune back into the sermon, and the sadness softens.

Jeff holds my hand in his warm one for the remainder of the service. I draw comfort from his strong presence. My dad loved Jeff and would have been happy that he was by my side.

Another treasured memory floods my mind as I look down at my hand resting my husband’s larger one. In my mind’s eye, I see mom and dad holding hands as they sat together on the sofa. Some years ago, I observed them hand in hand as they sat there and thought then how beautiful it was that there was still such comfort for both in this simple expression of togetherness and affection. Discretely I captured the moment. The photo is a wonderful reminder of their enduring love and commitment to one another. In it, I catch a glimpse of my own future.

Moments later, we file out of the church, greeting the pastor as we go. Leaning in, she quietly asks if I’m ok.  She had noticed my tears. I choke up a little as I try to explain how that sweet old man in front of me brought my dad back for a brief time.

I’m still holding in my mind’s eye a picture of dad laughing with delight when we step out into the cold bright morning. The sunshine on my face coaxes a smile and my spirits lift again. It’s a beautiful day.