He arrives each day, just before nine. His thin grey hair highlights his blue eyes that are quick to crinkle at the edges. He’s chewing gum. It used to be yellow PK, now it’s Extra sugarless, each long strip cut neatly in half.
He changes into his painting clothes, sandpaper tucked into his back pocket, and sets up his neatly folded drop cloths against the wall, or the skirting boards or window frame that will receive his attention today. He paints. Layer upon layer. He fills in the gaps and the holes, he sands until smooth and flush. He’s seventy-five yet his well-trained eyes don’t miss a thing.
His presence settles me. His even, skilled strokes wash over me. We stop for coffee. He always brings his own, but I make him one anyway. The stories begin. Stories from many years ago. We laugh, sometimes until the tears roll.
He’s coming towards the last wall. I don’t want him to stop. It’s been months of his constant, quiet presence and his humour filling our new home. It’s all finished now. The house is transformed.
The painter is my Dad. He fell only months ago and cracked numerous ribs. He faces a battle with cancer. He never, ever complains, only if we fuss over him.
He shows me how to serve, how to take joy in the mundane, how to patiently persevere with the tricky bits. He’s quick to encourage, only gives his wisdom when asked, and what wisdom he has!
‘Hey Henk, what do you think about the cornice? Hey Henk, what should we do about the skirting boards? Hey Henk, how do you do the plastering?’. He knows it all.
I’ll miss these daily encounters, this stabilising force in my upside-down re-entry world.
He notices and celebrates each little achievement and is there to cheer us on as we make our first tentative steps into our different life here. One daughter’s first day of school, the other daughter’s first day at Uni, a visit to her new job at a café, the son who earned his first paycheck, he’s there for it all. Those crinkly, well-trained eyes don’t miss a thing.
And gratitude swells and swirls my heart. My Dad, the painter.
Oh Alison’ You have captured your dad so well! I’m all teary and so glad you could have those reentry months working with your dad before the isolation. God is good. Love you
We’ll treasure those days always! Can’t wait to hug you both in person!
Precious Alison,
This is such a beautiful testimony to your dad and our loving father God – the way you use words is like a painting being formed in our minds as we read! Praying for that miracle and looking forward to a story in the future about how God provides for you all. Love Margot
I love that imagine of painting words! It would be an enormous task to paint words as well as my Dad paints walls, I’ve a lot to learn! Can’t wait to write the story of how God will provide, and thanks so very much for your prayers!
So many blessings.
Indeed!
WOW and what an emotional ‘Painter’ you have left me.. Thank you so much, you are awesome.
And you are rather exceptional. Love you Dad, and thanks again for our lovely new home!
I love you all! What a beautiful family. God must be smiling when He looks on you.
Dear Alison, you have nailed it and expressed your godly father so well as a painter and your dad, a man with patience and gentleness and so much love for his family. God bless you and all your family.
I am so so so glad you are such precious recognised sacred moments with your dad. Love him lots too xx