But Dad You Can Pray
Feeling old and useless
His hands were big.
Mine were so small.
My dad loved me, respected me, provided for all
My mom, my brother, and me.
The years went by —
I married, moved away.
Then rough times came as he retired and said,
“I’m just good for nothing.”
And I replied, “No, Dad, you can pray.”
I remember that moment so clearly
When we walked by the old library
On that cool fall day on the sidewalk.
He looked so weary.
In his 80s now, he was sad and humbled
By circumstances he could not control.
I was visiting again, our old house of 50 years
Where I grew up having a basement with coal.
There he was, 50 years later, in the early morning
As I passed through the dimly lit dining room.
I almost tripped.
I didn’t see him in the gloom.
He was on his knees
Hands folded on the chair in that corner
Praying quietly aloud —
And tears came to my eyes.
