Not even a sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. The very hairs on your head are all numbered so don’t be afraid. You are more valuable to Him than a whole flock of sparrows. - Matthew 10:29-31

My father, a beautiful man with thick, dark, wavy hair and a towering stature of 6’3”, was my hero and my mentor. Whatever Dad was interested in, also intrigued me.  I have vivid memories as a child of five of my brother Richard purchasing a Harley Davidson motorcycle.  His enthusiasm was so contagious that it didn’t take long for Dad to catch the bike bug, and procure a motorcycle of his own.

When he first drove up the driveway with his beautifully chromed out, vivid gold Honda Road Cruiser, I could hardly wait to jump on behind him and go for a ride around the block.  The wind whipped my hair in knots and my tiny white blouse flapped in the breeze as we sped around the corner. I held on to Dad with all my might, my petite hands barely reaching half way around his middle.  He drove all the way to Herrin Park, with one hand on the handle bars and the other clasped firmly to my forearms. I couldn’t have been more proud or more entertained.  This was sure to be a wonderful adventure we could all enjoy!

One fine Sunday, Dad and my brother Richard, decided to take a three day trip to the lush, green hills of Kentucky to see God’s wonders and the beauty of life on the road.  I watched intently as he loaded the saddlebags on the sides of the bike with clothing, food and beverages, all the while pacing back and forth in a jealous stupor, fully aware this trip did not include me.

“Daddy, are you sure you have to go away?  I asked.  “I really wish you’d stay home.  I don’t want you to go.”

“Now, you know your brother and I have planned this for several weeks, and you’ve got nothing to worry about.  I’ll be back by Wednesday.”

“But, Daddy, I really don’t feel good about this trip.  Something’s going to happen to you if you go.  I just know it.”   There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the growing envy in my little heart.  I was genuinely concerned about his safety and had a strong sense that something was going to happen to him if he chose to leave.

Dad and Richard waved goodbye to Mother and me, as they made their way out of our driveway and onto the road.  We watched as they finally became so small they slipped from our sight.  Mother turned with a pat on my head and walked into the house, but I couldn’t budge from my spot.  Standing tip toe, my small hands shading my eyes, I strained to see the tiniest glimpse of that gold Honda road cruise, hoping against hope that Dad would turn around and come back home to me.

The call came on Monday around noon. The color drained from Mother’s face and her hand began to shake; I could see that whoever was on the other end of the phone had nothing good to say.

As Dad was merging onto the highway, a speeding car didn’t see his road cruiser in time, and although the driver made a sincere attempt to miss him, slammed into the back end of that beautiful bike, sending my father thirty feet into the air, and coming down to land on the roof of the car that hit him. He rolled onto the pavement and lay motionless on the road.  Richard heard the squealing tires and turned his bike around to witness a terrible sight.

Richard knelt by Dad and tried to find a pulse, but there was nothing.  He wasn’t breathing and his heart had stopped.  Cell phones weren’t in existence in those days and there was no pay phone in sight.  Strangely a man began to approach on foot from the distance and as he got closer, Richard could see he was carrying what appeared to be a little black medical bag.  The man didn’t speak a word, but knelt down by my father, checking for a pulse and listening for a breath. Without warning, he began to beat on Dad’s chest, then reached into his black bag and pulled out a syringe.  He filled it with liquid from a bottle and gave Dad a shot directly into his heart.  Seconds after, Dad’s heart began to beat and he took a deep and desperate breath.  Slowly the man stood, shook my brother’s hand, and introduced himself as Dr. Smith.  He told Richard my father would be fine.

The scream of an ambulance siren pierced the air, catching my brother’s attention along with all the onlookers of the accident scene.  As Richard turned back to thank Dr. Smith, he was no where to be found.  Richard pushed through the crowd, and asked if anyone had seen where the doctor had gone, but no one saw him leave.

Dad ended up in the hospital for several weeks with broken bones, nasty bruises and a concussion, but otherwise very fortunate.  Richard tried for several months to locate Dr. Smith.  No one in the two state area had heard of a Dr. Smith that matched Richard’s description.

It was after this event that I first realized my importance to God, and how I could really trust Him to answer my prayers.  I understood He genuinely cared about the things that were of value to me. I asked sincerely for my father to return home safely and he did.  Dad could easily have been killed in that trauma, but God sent an angel, a guardian in the form of a doctor to answer the prayers of a five year old child.

I can’t begin to imagine what my life would have been like had my father been taken from me at such an early age.  At this time of year, when Father’s Day is celebrated, the realization of the miracle of his survival is all the more poignant.  Because I was blessed with such a great dad and had an intimate and close relationship with him, it is so much easier for me to look at my Heavenly Father with eyes of complete trust and faith.  I know God won’t let me down.  I know He will never fail me and I can honestly say, it’s because of Dad, that I am able to embrace faith in God with such abandon.  Thanks, Daddy.  You’ll always be in my heart.

I lost my mother not long ago. She was a delightful 85 years old, and would have turned 86 on June fifteenth. I had her for 47 years, but 47 years was not nearly enough.  Neither for me, nor for any of us who knew and loved her.

Her funeral was a cornucopia of people from all walks of life, various faiths, ethnicities and socio-economic backgrounds. There was one resounding quality in mother’s life that brought all these people together in a tiny, overcrowded and uncomfortably warm room. They all wanted to give back a little bit of what she’d always given to them—love, acceptance and encouragement.

When I was a small child, my parents owned a nursing home called Hampton Manor. It was located on a narrow winding street, on the north end of town, surrounded by big gnarly trees with canopies of lovely green leaves, offering their shade to anyone passing by. There were beautiful flowers planted out front—all pinks and reds, because these were Mother’s favorite colors. Their fragrance welcomed every visitor who entered Hampton Manor.

“How in the world are you today, Mr. Pulley? You must be fine, because how could anyone be anything but fine on a day like today!”  Mother’s positive demeanor and uplifting cheerfulness had a way of setting the mood for all the visitors who entered that home. Her beautiful smile could light up a room.

She knew every patient—all one hundred and fifty by first and last name, their personalities, likes and dislikes, their family’s names, what they preferred for dinner and certainly what they didn’t. No matter how cantankerous some of those folks could be, Mother always knew precisely the right thing to say to quiet the troubled soul.

My summers were spent as a teen working in the nursing home, feeding patients, changing bed sheets, wheeling people down the hall in their wheelchairs and basically learning the art of the nurse’s aide. I found out then, just how hard my mother worked. I discovered how taxing people could be when not feeling well, or when they realized they were in the twilight of their lives.

Mother was always thinking up something to keep people in touch with the present, not allowing them to live only in the memories of their past. She’d organize picnics outside on the grounds and have visitors bring their pets to the event—a hilarious blend of critters and patients, all co-mingled together in giggling heaps, surrounded by metal walkers, wheel chairs and oxygen tanks. It was quite a sight.

We celebrated every fall by the return of the geese traveling south for the winter and the patients would make arts and crafts to commemorate the return of the winged wonders. There was a little pond close by the nursing home property and the geese knew exactly where to go. Every year, curious faces of all ages were pressed against windows in silent awe as the beautiful creatures made their graceful descent. It was a time of curiosity and fun at the nursing home as the wandering geese returned home. Mother encouraged a sense of exploration and mental stimulation for those in her care, as she was by nature a fun-loving and inquisitive person.

After hours in that place, walking endless miles from the north, south, east and west of the building, she’d still find time to come home and make the most amazing meals. My personal favorite was fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and her special home-made rolls.  The smell of that food made everyone’s mouth water and we would dig in greedily with no thought about anyone else. Mom would always get stuck with a wing, or some other unfavorable piece. She’d just smile and say, “Oh honey, don’t you know the wing’s the tastiest of all?”  Who was she kidding?

As I grew older and had a family of my own, I came to realize just how amazing my mother was. She handled both a wonderful career and a family with great finesse, and I never heard a word of complaint. She was grateful for all God’s great gifts and the wonders of life, her family and her ministry to those less fortunate.

My mother’s confidence came from the knowledge that she was doing exactly what God had called her to do.  She was fulfilling her purpose and carrying out the mission appointed to her. She was making a difference in the world—one life at a time. My mother’s greatest gift was the ability to look beyond her own anguish and see the suffering of others.

I find myself getting so caught up in my own world—the struggles and battles of my existence. I often forget that there is a world of people who are at the same moment dealing with pain and heartache.

Watching her example, I understood that all of us have been given gifts and talents—unique abilities to make a difference in the lives of those around us. It may not be as considerable as caring for one hundred and fifty needy patients in a nursing home. It may be as simple as considering the requests of a neighbor, or reaching out to a friend. But our lives are enriched when we take the time to extend a helping hand to those in need and find a way to use our God given endowments to produce a positive change in the world around us—one opportunity at a time.

It’s Mother’s Day again, and I now realize just how fortunate I was to have this amazing woman in my life.  She showed me, by her example, how to be the kind of mother and the type of person God designed me to be.  Thanks, Mom.

©2008, Tamra Nashman