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 largely my early years were like his. My Dad was absentia.
My first really good memory of my Father was him watching wrestling with me as a boy. I think that is why to this day, I hear the name Ric Flair, or Dusty Rhodes, and I get a warm feeling inside. He used to joy at watching me imitate them, and I would revel in the attention it would bring.
It was the first time that I connected the fact that if I did something outstanding, it would buy his affection. At that point, I poured myself into my studies. I was starting kindergarten and was already reading the newspaper. I could draw, and I didn't let a day go by without having a picture to show him when he got home.
I always felt that if the picture was good enough, then he would want to talk to me longer.
Around second grade or so, I started to realize that my Mom and Dad fought constantly. I had now begun to use the same tactics I had used to get Dad's attentions, to try and stop them from fighting. When I felt one coming, I would draw out a masterpiece, or any number of other things I had become good at.
In sixth grade, still largely unnoticed by my Dad, (at least outwardly), I was told that Mom and Dad was going to divorce. My Mom wanted it. My Dad did not. The war was fairly brutal and my sister and I were right in the middle.
I remember feeling as though I had to make a choice. Before long, I did have to, and the choice was easy. I would go with my Mom, as she was always my biggest champion.
My sister went with my Dad, and the separation was complete.
The visits were commonplace at first, and very uncomfortable. My Dad would vary between trying to make up for lost time, and trying to move on with the new women in his life. His attempts to make up for lost time were lost on me, however, as they were plied with money, not time.
My mother remarried and I was lucky enough to gain the best Father in the world in my stepfather. He has been all I could ever hope for in a Dad, but that is another story.
As I drove on with my life, I never really felt like I knew my Dad. I made attempt after attempt through the years to connect with him, but a new relationship with a new family was always in the way. My Dad kind of divorced me along with my Mother and I felt powerless to stop it. Oh he would see me around Christmas, and always give me stuff, but I was looking for a Dad.
As I began my adult life, my Dad had remarried, and we became even bigger strangers. I tried very hard to change this, but after years of rejection, I eventually gave up in a sense. I put it over to him to come to me.
That was a huge mistake as the following couple of years were Christmas only. Even though we lived in the same town, he couldn't see me on a regular basis.
I was active in sports for my entire life, and excelled. I played football, basketball, and baseball throughout my childhood and high school years, and he never attended a game. In contrast, my stepfather missed only one in the years he was in my life.
I joined the Army for four years, and never got one phone call or letter. All through basic training, and through my career in Germany, I never heard from him, save the couple of phone calls I made to him.
Then, one Sunday afternoon in 1992 or so, my Dad showed up at my doorstep. He had just come by to say hi and see how I was. I wept there on the front porch. It was wonderful. Every Sunday for a month, he visited like clockwork, and I couldn't believe it.
The Monday following that fourth week, I got a phone call at work. My father was very sick and I needed to get to the hospital. I rushed out the door, and hurried to his side. He had collapsed that morning with a stroke.
Needless to say, every emotion known to man coursed through my body, as I contemplated his possible passing.
He did not pass away, but was paralyzed on his right side, and could not speak. He would be home and wheelchair bound for the rest of his life.
Tons of arrangements had to be made, and I agreed to come and stay with him a couple of times a week to try to lessen the load on his wife. Little did I know, I was opening myself up to all the member's of his new family who saw only a son that had little to do with his Father.
The tensions grew more and more, and it became a real battle to even be in that home. None of his new family knew the hurts of our past, nor did they care. They simply saw what they wanted. My Dad had changed in his later years, and was very good to his new family, much like my grandfather had turned over his new leaf so many years before.
That did not transfer over to his relationship with me. That is, until just before his stroke. We were just starting to get some idea of who we were. And bang! He is struck down with the stroke.
All of these things conspired to help keep me away more and more. And that same distance I referred to earlier with my grannie reared it's head. I started visiting less and less, which made the visits I did make even more uncomfortable. I never knew my Dad to begin with, and now I knew him even less.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months and years, and up until a few days ago, I hadn't seen my Dad in two years.
Two days ago, my sister called to tell me that Dad had been moved to a nursing home, and that his kidney's were failing. He is diabetic, and has gout in his legs and feet.
I loaded the kids and my wife Julie into the van, and headed down the highway to the nursing home. As I rode along, I kept thinking of what I might say, and how he would react.
As we pulled into the nursing home, I readied myself for the discomfort I had always felt in the past, and headed inside.
Walking down the hallway to his room, it seemed like he was way to young to ever be in there, but as I entered his room, that feeling changed. He was so skinny that I almost didn't recognize him. He was on his side and trying to go to the bathroom in his hand held bottle. He looked up at me and I knew he wanted the girls and Julie to wait outside. I helped him relieve himself, and sat down beside him.
"Dad, I missed you so much. Are you in pain? Can I get you anything? I'm so sorry that I haven't been to see you. I am trying to be a good Dad, and make you proud. Dad, I just didn't feel comfortable coming there. Not because of you, but everyone else. I love you. You do know that don't you... I would have been to see-"his feeble hand reached up and hushed me. Calmly, and with a gentleness I had never seen before from him, he gently shook his head that he understood. And we cried....
The girls came in and Grandpa kissed them on the hands, and looked at them with a love that I didn't know he had in him. I could see the pride in his eyes for the first time, proud of his son and the job I was doing with those two little girls.
Strangely, all the hurts of the past meant nothing, and all I could see in my memories eyes were some good memories I had long forgotten: Him taking me to the wrestling matches live and in person; him buying me that red rider b.b. gun that my mother swore she would never let me have; him taking me up to Leon's gas station and bragging about how smart I was to guys that really didn't care; him crying the day he left our house for the last time, and telling me he loved me......
As I was leaving, I asked him if he was okay with the Lord, and he nodded yes. I looked deep into his eyes, and realized for the first time, that they were the most gorgeous green I had ever seen. More importantly, I saw God in his eyes......
As we rode home, it hit me like a bullet.......I had just proved God's existence-who else could heal a lifetime of hurt in a single visit to a nursing home? As long as I live, I will never forget the miracle that happened that day. I'll never let go of my family. I'll never let go of my faith............Bless you Jesus Christ........for appearing in my father's soul.