I remember as a child listening to my father read to us, both from the Bible and the plethora of story books on our shelves. He has a certain intonation, a gentle inflection that brought the words to life for me. I can picture him sitting there on the bed, with his thick fingers delicately turning the pages. He was the one who told me about God in a way I could understand, showing unconditional love both in the passages he read and the time he spent with me.
Fast forward a few decades to the arrival of my own two children. Somehow I do not see my father enough, anymore. The days are filled with business and though we live in the same town, our lives travel down different roads. Imagine my surprise when I first read to my own children, and found that I used the same phrasing and inflection that my father used with me, trying to wrap the words in the same web of warmth that he did. My daughters were caught up in the same storytelling web that I had been as a child.
So was it the stories? The voice? Or the fact that my father took the time out of his always busy days to read to me? Probably a little of everything. The fact is I will always hear my father’s voice, reading the Bible or the magical stories of “the great gray green greasy Limpopo River” and the Giant Jam Sandwich and though the stories have faded, his voice will not. Thank you, Dad.