I remember seeing this picture of an older man praying over his daily bread when I was just a kid. At about four or five years old, I wasn’t sure who it was in the picture, it might have been my grandpa, but my four-year-old mind wasn’t sure it could be. However, even then, there was enough pause and reflection to cause me to wonder.
Fifty-seven(ish) years later, I was able to acquire that picture. I probably could have bought it anywhere or anytime, but when it came time to sort my dad’s things, it was one of the things that I was drawn to. I don’t think he even had the childhood original, but that moment caught on that film mattered.
The other thing I was drawn to was his own personal bible. Two months ago, my dad died at ninety-three after a three-year decline into blindness. I got his bible before he died, back when my mom sorted through their stuff in preparation for downsizing.
I wanted the personal vibe of my dad’s private, devotional life. As far as I could tell, my dad wasn’t orthodox, even according to him.
He was, however, deeply devoted to his Lord and Saviour. He believed in a resurrected Christ who interacted daily with him through the always-present Holy Spirit.
I knew because I had watched him, and his bible reflected this reality with many personal insights written in it, underscored and emphasized in pen ink. Dad inculcated what he read into his daily life and did it regularly. That was my heritage. That is my blessing.
