A Timothy Tale
Oct. 3, 2011
For many years I had a recurring dream in which my dad stopped by to visit. In my dream, I had just baked sugar cookies, his favorite. We would just be sitting down to catch up, when some unimportant thing called me to another part of the house. I always return to find a note saying he loved me and would see me soon. It’s been nearly 20 years since my dad died, and I always welcome that dream, however frustrating and fleeting, just for the chance to see his face again. In fact, I’ve been looking for him for years–in the faces of other men his age, in the mannerisms of the men who have similar interests or jobs, in the way my own mouth forms a crooked smile, and most recently, in the face of my own son.
Owen doesn’t look much like my dad, but he has many of my dad’s mannerisms. He is in every way his own boy. But especially in the last couple of years, I have often imagined what their relationship might have been. In the way that some men are men’s men, my dad was a kid’s dad. He wrestled on the floor with us, read to us, carted us to piano, and just generally loved us to pieces. He came home from work excited to see us. He played ball with us and swam with us and rode go-carts with us. He was proud of us–as ardent in his love for us as for my mother. For all of these reasons and many more, I know that he and Owen would have been fast friends.
This morning at breakfast, Owen said, “Mama, I’ve been thinking. When God gives us bodies that never die and no one is ever sick again, I think I’d like to get to know your dad. I think we might be best friends. And it would be so cool–Owen Timothy and Timothy playing.”
Like a note on my counter, saying “I love you, and I’ll see you soon.”
“Yes Owen,” I answered. ”I think he would like that very much.”
I would, too.
