by T. I. Lowe
Mave leans around Momma, catching my attention and whispers, “Wonder where Pop even found that getup? I had no idea polo shirts came in polka dots.” He wrinkles his nose while angling his head to check out more of the outfit.
“Shh!” Momma scolds as she pushes him to lean back so we can’t continue our conversation.
I look back to our preacher and blink a few times to adjust to the brightness of his outfit. “He looks like he’s wearing plaid bloomers,” I mumble.
“They’re called golf knickers,” Trace, of all people, interjects from behind me where he sits on the second pew with the rest of the band. Mave and I both whip our heads around to eye him.
“What? It’s true,” Trace whispers.
“Them things are a neon rainbow of craziness. It hurts my eyes. I call them criminal.” Momma nudges me too forcefully with her sharp elbow to hush me. “Oww!”
“How about I go ahead and address my attire so that maybe Mr. King can quieten down,” Preacher Floyd says, rendering me mute. I jerk back around in the pew.
“That’s Maxim, sir,” Mave points out with an irritating smirk, sounding more like a punk kid than a grown man.
Our preacher squints over the top of his bifocals and studies the colorful tattoos covering Mave’s arms. “I’ve gotten pretty good at telling the two of you apart.” He redirected his attention to the rest of us. “On our last fishing trip, Martin made me promise he got to pick out my attire today if he out-fished me. Obviously, he did.”
We join him in a round of laughs. Sounds like my old man. He became one lively somebody close to the end of his life. He donned a stubborn streak like the rest of us, declaring he would outlive the doctors’ predictions so that he wouldn’t miss meeting his next grandchild. He did and then some, spending the last month with us at my cabin so he could get to know Jameson.
Sniffing back the emotions, I lean over and kiss my infant son’s soft head where it’s resting in the crook of my wife’s arm. She’s right there so there’s no denying a kiss to her damp cheek. Mona’s eyes are rimmed red, missing my dad already, too. She offers me a smile before focusing back to our preacher.
“Today I’m here to tell you the story of Martin King. He was worried I’d get up here and sugarcoat his life. His words, not mine. Went as far as writing it down the way he wanted it told.” Preacher Floyd holds up several sheets of paper and eyes each of us who are crowded on the front pew. Izzy and the twins beside Mave, Momma in the midst of us, Me, Mona and Jameson.
The preacher clears his throat and begins reading.
“Pretty sorry of me to completely destroy my life before knowing how to properly appreciate it. I lost out on a lot and it’s all my fault. God gave me the world and all I did was make a mess of it. I wish this was being read to say that I was an upright man, devoted husband and father, but I was none of those things. I was a selfish alcoholic that chose my addition over supporting my family and it cost me everything. I can tell you that by some generous miracle from God, I got a second chance with my family. I didn’t deserve it, but they gave it to me.
Even though I ran away from my family, abandoning them to fend for themselves, my wife Judith prayed for me. Thirty years of praying and God heard her. Again, I didn’t deserve her love and devotion, but she gave it. Judith, I love you, and thank you for praying for me.
Proud isn’t a strong enough word to describe how I feel about my two sons. The talent them two have is pure magic. I’d like to say they got that from me, but I assure you I get no credit for their story. That came from them overcoming incredible odds and pure determination. They’re both Godly men who don’t claim to be perfect. They claim to be real and flawed like the rest of us and are humbled by their blessings. I look up to them and not because I’m shorter. No, those two have taught me a lot about life these last few years. Maxim and Maverick, I love you and want to thank you for forgiving me.
I’m a sinner. A sinner who ruined his gift of life. A sinner who got a second chance. We all sin and fall short, but I want to share with you how God forgave me anyway. And all I had to do was ask. None of us deserve it, but He loves us so much. In the small church where you sit today, God got ahold of me and I finally listened. My biggest regret was waiting so long to ask. Don’t you let the demons of your life stop you from the gift it was meant to be. Ask God in. I did and was given peace in my last years of life. I got to love my family the way God intended for me to love them. My story is a mess, but God never gave up on me. My redemption is His story.”
I wipe away my tears, thankful that God gave us all a second chance so many times. I have memories with my old man to hold on to. As Dillon plays one of my dad’s favorite songs softly on the piano, I drift back several months to the concert we put on at the Shimmer Lakes Spring Festival. Pop snuck in the audience with Momma, thinking we wouldn’t see them, but for some reason I’ve always been able to sense when he’s around.
As soon as I caught sight of him, I set off in a new riff and threw the entire concert out of order. Ben tossed his clipboard in the trash and let us have our way with the rest of the show. We jammed out to a list of all of my dad’s favorites, dedicating the show in his honor. Our old man beamed with pride that night.
Dillon handed over the mic to Mave near the end of the show, and we brought the place down with a cover of Creedence Clearwater’s “Down on The Corner” which was always one of our old man’s favorites. Then we all crooned out a cappella “Stand By Me” after our bodyguards helped our parents to the stage, so they could share a dance to their song. It would end up being their last dance together.
Several shouts of praise draw me back to the piano where Dillon is laying claim to the keys while singing. My dad would have loved this.
This is my story.
This is my song.
Praising my Savior all the day long.
Dillon sings softly as the pallbearers do their thing, but I don’t focus on them or how short my time has been with my dad. I focus on the second chance I had with him, and all of the memories we made count.
With all this dancing through my head, I pull Mona and my son close, knowing how important it is to appreciate the gifts before us and abandon the hurts holding us captive.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A special thank you to my fabulous readers for appreciating my imperfect Bleu Family. You get what I’m trying to do with them and that just makes my day!
Thank you to Renee Kinlaw, author of God Has a Scrub Brush. This book helped me to wrap my heart and mind around past hurt and how important it is to forgive it and let it go. Still struggling as Max did, but I’ll get there.
Thank you to Bernie and Nate for suggesting we send Will on a wild goose chase for his initiation. Sorry, but I couldn’t let him get away with having to do it buck-naked.
Lydia, thank you for always being present and encouraging your momma!
My beta readers, Sally Anderson, Trina Cooke, Lynn Edge, and Jennifer Strickland. You girls help me keep the story on track. Y’all rock!
To Jan Carol, my editing lady! Thanks for cleaning up my sloppy typos and for guiding a sentence into making better sense.
Lastly, but always firstly, my Heavenly Father. You are a good, good father. Thank you for loving me and accepting my flaws. And also for allowing me the epic opportunity of sharing your incredible love with the world.
All Scriptures taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
If T.I. isn’t writing a book, she’s reading one. She’s proud to be a part of a tiny town in South Carolina where she is surrounded by loved ones and country fields.
For a complete list of Lowe’s published books, biography, upcoming events, and other information, visit http://www.tilowe.com/ and be sure to check out her blog, COFFEE CUP, while you’re there!
She loves to connect with her reading friends.
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