Dad…
It is a hot humid Louisiana June night. Somewhere around 2:30 AM. At 23 years of age, I am haunted by thoughts that my mind cannot conceive. Something has occurred in my life that the possibility of continuing seems unbearable. I attempt Prayer but no relief. I feel abandoned, alone and melancholy. Where does one turn in the dark soul of the night, when all hope has dissipated and the bones give forth no strength?
It is here that I understand the Psalmist in Psalm 88. All seems lost.
My first thought clear thought then appears – I can go to my dad. No matter how inadequate I may feel at the time, I knew I could approach dad. You see my dad, Herman Ray Hill was not a lovey, hugging type of a man. But there was no question that I felt comfortable in seeking his advice at 2:30 in the morning on this sweltering humid night. It just felt natural, and that speaks volumes.
So, I track to his house, walk through the unlocked front door. Walk quietly, down the narrow dark hall leading to his bedroom. Gently, I nudge my dad with tears streaming down my face. “Dad, I’m so sorry but I need to talk”…
My dad’s immediate response that night are the only words I remember from the conversation…
“Son, this is what I’m here for”…
Oh, that my children may that secure in my love for them…
