by Rodney Southern

Created on: July 01, 2007

Today, I proved God's existence.

I have tried most of my adult life to find some tangible proof of his being here, and not had a ton of luck. I have always believed, but through faith alone.

The following story is true, and I feel that I am being asked to share it.

My father's name is Ronald Page Southern. He was born 62 years ago to Edna and Charles Southern.

Edna was the best Christian woman I have ever known. For that matter, she was the best woman I have ever known. In all my years of knowing my Grannie, she never so much as raised her voice to another human being.

She passed away this year, and I have yet to grieve for her properly as distance and my growing family kept me from her for many years. Time has a way of taking your guilty feelings away, and mine still linger in the back of my head for not visiting her properly through the years.

She was the person I always wished to be like in my family.

Charles Southern was my father's Dad, and did not have my Grannie's virtues. He spent my Father's childhood in absentia, or drunk, depending on the seasons.

Around the time my Dad moved out on his own, my Grandfather begged his way back into my Grannie's life, with promises of turning over a new leaf. Grannie allowed him back in, and my Grandpa was true to his promises.

He died in 1989, and was a role model parent and grandparent throughout those years. He was an example to me of redemption in the face of temptation.

When my father moved out, he married my Mom. My Mom was abused heavily as a child, and spent her childhood bounced from family member to foster home and back again. Her mother was an alcoholic and abuser, and my Father was my Mom's "knight in shining armor".

They married in 1966 and conceived my sister later that year. By all accounts, those years were wonderful for my parents. They were madly in love and looking forward to a long life of happiness. My Dad began working as a truck driver to earn a decent living, and I was conceived in December of 1968.

My earliest memories of my Dad was when he would come home from work, tired from an exhausting day of work, and parking himself in our maroon colored recliner.

He was very old school in his relationship with my Mother. He was the man, and she the woman. She had the house clean, the kid's cared for, and supper on the table. She got up to get his drinks, and a simple shake of his glass, with the ice rattling, would bring her running. He would look up from his newspaper, and acknowledge us kids here and there, but

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