The reunion with my father was good. But there just don't seem to be words in the english vocabulary to tell you how good. I could tell you what we did, where we went, what we ate, what we said, but it wouldn't matter. I can't tell you how I feel about it.
The last time I saw him, I was seven years old. When I saw him coming out of the gate at the airport, I knew him. The picture he sent probably helped. That I had two kids in a stroller and one in my arms probably helped him. But there was more. There was a familiarity to him. That I can't describe.
And when I led him around a long trek around downtown, he willingly pushed the stroller without ever grumbling about my bad sense of direction, which he admitted I probably got from him. And when my kids crawled all over him and cozied up next to his chocolate dessert at dinner, he willingly shared. And when my daughter whispered to me after dinner that she loves her new grandpa, my heart melted. And when he puts his arm around me while we praised God together and I couldn't even sing my praise, for the tears in my eyes and the lump in my throat. See I can tell you all these things, but I can't tell you what they meant to me. I can't make you feel what I felt with the words I used.
But when I took him to the airport to return home and he looked in my eyes and thanked me for letting him come, I knew something I never knew before. And I cried the whole way home and for most of the day, because something special had happened and I am eternally thankful. I am thankful for the new memories to put with my old memories. I am thankful I have a dad who loves me still after all these years who is willing to give of himself so that we can both be better people.
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