It was Christmas and I was eight years old. Beginning to have my doubts about Father Christmas, I had no doubts at all regarding my parents love and ability to provide appropriate presents under the Christmas tree. The box stood out. Larger than most, I saw my name on the label.
What a moment. Tearing off the wrapping, there it was- a
fort. And what a size. The central chamber opened out into wide concourses,
interlocking walls, towers, turrets, archways and doors. How wonderful.
By Christmas afternoon, the cowboys had successfully taken
the castle from the mediaeval knights (my history knowledge was a bit basic in
those days). But still I played on. It was a reluctant and rather tired
8-year-old who was led up the stairs, still clutching his favourite knight.
This week, clutching an order of service, I watched as my
98-year-old father was lowered into a grave. Memories came flooding back. Not
just of Dad's woodworking skills, reflected in many gifts over the years, but
of those times spent together as a family. The car journeys. The holidays. Learning
to cycle. Learning to swim. Listening to music. Walking the dog. My sister and
I were so fortunate to have a stable upbringing with such amazing parents.
Dad was a reluctant convert. Observing my sister and I, he
chose either not to understand or not to investigate our faith. Less than a
year ago, he said “amen” to a simple prayer, acknowledging Jesus as his Lord. I
suspect that as a child, he did have a Christian faith, so this was a return,
rather than a brand-new start. I'm grateful he got there.
As I say my farewells, and turn away from the grave, I know
it's not the end. One day I will see him again. Until then, rest in peace, Dad.
I will see you in the morning.
And, yes, I do still have the fort.
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