Following a Father’s Footsteps

Five years old, observant, and wide awake I scamper to the light in the bathroom where I hear my dad. He is shaving or should I say sculpting his chiseled face. Taking his tie, he forms the loosely dangling cloth into a classic Windsor. The planned out routine continues as he fluffs his jet black hair into place. Houghton College would feel his presence that day.

Years pass. Dad and I are mowing pre-scribed shapes in the backyard. We even place the loose grass in bags for compost. Mom’s gardens need to be immaculate, so we create rolling hills to bring full attention to the daffodils. Dad guides my hands along the high and low areas. The beds must look flawless.

Little did I know at the time of my father’s impact.

On September 2nd, 2006 I arise at 5:30am. Stumbling down the worn green steps, I approach the bathroom. Shower, shave, and shine. Now my hands perfect the loose cloth into a tie. I guide my brown hair into place. My first day teaching at Philadelphia Mennonite High School would prove to be of impact.

Three hours in the day I call my dad. I forget a basic grammar rule. A rule my dad so calmly quizzed me on many times. He responds with care. The comma separates two independent clauses.