Papa's Tears

amai heian · 12-23-2006, 04:45 AM

Fathers--God's special blessing. Not quite as emotionally loving as mothers, they have their own role in their children's life. Much like our own, loving Father, every one of ours loves us very deeply--in his own, fatherly way.

This is a story of a father who loved and cried.

He would rise up early before dawn, making our coffee, preparing for the long day ahead. He would wake us up from our deep slumber: gently, comfortingly, easing the apprehension he knew we bore from the anticipation of another difficult school day. Yet he never complained.

He would toil endlessly at work; he refused to use his vacation allowance unless necessary. He would sometimes go to work on weekends, even while obviously exhausted, just to be able to bring food to the table and keep up with our comfortable style of living.

He would lose his temper easily, and all those harsh words come flying out unchecked from his mouth. Harsh words that never seemed to heal once you were the target. He would fling painful sentences about your very existence; it was difficult to shut out. Hot tears would roll down my cheeks out of his sight; I had sworn never to show weakness in his presence. And then I would think about the unfairness of it all: how I could never speak up to defend myself, state my side...it was an exercise in futility. It would only make a one-sided argument worse. For years I endured the pain quietly, taking every criticism, every painful blow...and realized I was stronger.

His harsh words have somehow made me a sturdy rock in the more difficult trials of my life.

I saw his reasons in a new light. He had trained me to accept the realities of life early on. How else could I have coped up with all the stress of school, if I hadn't gone through a worse experience and survived? How else could I have still smiled, even when my world was crumbling, because it had been a familiar scenario? If it wasn't for Papa and his strict--albeit painful--disciplinary measures, I don't think I would have gone this far.

A long time ago a little girl cowered in fear at the sight of her father with a belt in his hands. She cried out in pain as the belt lashed against her skin. She pleaded with her Papa to stop, because it was painful and she was sorry for the wrong she had done. She was crying out, pleading, begging...she thought her father hated her. She never noticed the tears her Papa was shedding, tears of pain as he watched his daughter crying and screaming, tears of remorse for every gentle whip he made. But he kept at it, because he knew it was for his daughter's own good.

This daughter saw her Papa cry many years later, when her grandmother died. She nearly couldn't believe it. Papa was crying. Then she understood: her Papa was human after all. He understood pain. He understood love.

A long time ago a little girl never liked her father for what he did. Many years later, she finally understood why.

And she loved him for it.

12-23-2006, 04:45 AM	#1
amai heian amai heian Edit Disciple	Papa's Tears Fathers--God's special blessing. Not quite as emotionally loving as mothers, they have their own role in their children's life. Much like our own, loving Father, every one of ours loves us very deeply--in his own, fatherly way. This is a story of a father who loved and cried. He would rise up early before dawn, making our coffee, preparing for the long day ahead. He would wake us up from our deep slumber: gently, comfortingly, easing the apprehension he knew we bore from the anticipation of another difficult school day. Yet he never complained. He would toil endlessly at work; he refused to use his vacation allowance unless necessary. He would sometimes go to work on weekends, even while obviously exhausted, just to be able to bring food to the table and keep up with our comfortable style of living. He would lose his temper easily, and all those harsh words come flying out unchecked from his mouth. Harsh words that never seemed to heal once you were the target. He would fling painful sentences about your very existence; it was difficult to shut out. Hot tears would roll down my cheeks out of his sight; I had sworn never to show weakness in his presence. And then I would think about the unfairness of it all: how I could never speak up to defend myself, state my side...it was an exercise in futility. It would only make a one-sided argument worse. For years I endured the pain quietly, taking every criticism, every painful blow...and realized I was stronger. His harsh words have somehow made me a sturdy rock in the more difficult trials of my life. I saw his reasons in a new light. He had trained me to accept the realities of life early on. How else could I have coped up with all the stress of school, if I hadn't gone through a worse experience and survived? How else could I have still smiled, even when my world was crumbling, because it had been a familiar scenario? If it wasn't for Papa and his strict--albeit painful--disciplinary measures, I don't think I would have gone this far. A long time ago a little girl cowered in fear at the sight of her father with a belt in his hands. She cried out in pain as the belt lashed against her skin. She pleaded with her Papa to stop, because it was painful and she was sorry for the wrong she had done. She was crying out, pleading, begging...she thought her father hated her. She never noticed the tears her Papa was shedding, tears of pain as he watched his daughter crying and screaming, tears of remorse for every gentle whip he made. But he kept at it, because he knew it was for his daughter's own good. This daughter saw her Papa cry many years later, when her grandmother died. She nearly couldn't believe it. Papa was crying. Then she understood: her Papa was human after all. He understood pain. He understood love. A long time ago a little girl never liked her father for what he did. Many years later, she finally understood why. And she loved him for it.
Status: Offline