Daddy's Girl

I'm going to take a break from talking about Amos today.  Today I'm going to talk about my father.

I call my father "Daddy." It's common enough in the south, where I was raised, but referring to him as "Daddy" here  (not the South) raised a couple of eyebrows. I don't care. That's who he is. Daddy worked hard for everything we had. He was well known around town and to this day if you're out and about with my father, you're going to get more than a few "howdies" thrown your way.  One of the most common conversations you'll hear is this:

Random Person: Howdy! What do ya know good?
Daddy: Awe nothin much. What do you know?
Random Person: Nothin.. nothin..

And the conversation would take off from there. That was one of my favorite things to hear as a child.  Daddy is not only well known, he's well respected. 

He is a mechanic by trade. A GOOD one. I remember once as a child, 8 or 9 years old, Daddy had just started working for the local BP as their in house mechanic. It was a front page story in our local paper. I kid you not. There on the front page was a picture of my daddy... smiling like a fool.  Eventually Daddy wised up and realized that the business would go where he went. So he opened up his own shop and he kept it open until he retired about 5 years ago.

He is a business man by heart.  I can not tell you how many times I heard these phrases:

"Your pappy could sell dirt to a farmer!"

"That Daddy of yours could pawn off snow to an Eskimo!"

I once had a boy in high school come up to me and say "When I grow up I want to be just like your Daddy." 

Daddy's a smooth talker. He's a good ole boy. He's everyone's best friend and nobody's fool. His family is his heartbeat. He'd break his back for a dime if he thought one of his kids needed it. In fact, he has.

All this to say... I love my Daddy.  He's a hard man to live up to.

When I was about 16 years old Daddy went to the hospital. Again.  He was in and out of the hospital alot in those days. There was always something wrong with him. But this time he wasn't in our little town's rinky-dink hospital. He was taken to a much larger hospital in the state capitol.  He had been there for a while. It feels like weeks but it could have been only days. I honestly don't remember. Then one night I was being taken home by my sister. I asked when Daddy was coming home. That's when they told me.... he wasn't. He had cancer. The kind that kills. The kind that kills fast. This was in November. They told me that he wasn't expected to make it till Christmas. It was a massive malignant tumor on his pancreas. It had already spread to his liver, which is why he was so yellow. I later learned it was called "jaundice." They told me he was in alot of pain right now. They couldn't keep his pain levels under control and he was maxed out on morphine. Any more and it could be lethal.  They were going to try an operation the next day. The operation wouldn't save him. It would only extend his life... his suffering.  I was blown away. Stunned. I was 16 years old. SIXTEEN. I was way too young to lose my father. I wasn't done with him yet. And so when I got home, I went to bed and I prayed. It was a Tuesday night. I don't know why I remember that, but I do. I layed in bed for a while crying and praying and begging. One thought ran through my mind over and over...

"Jesus, you healed a blind man. You made a lame man walk. You raised people from the dead. You CAN heal my Daddy. Will you? Please? I'm not done with him yet. Please?"

Over and over and over... until this warmth spread over me. A physical warmth and a peace. Instantly I no longer had the desire to cry. I felt warm and safe. In my mind's eye I envisioned myself sitting on the knee of God. I didn't know how it was going to end but I knew it would be okay. And so I slept.

The next day was the longest day of my life. I had gone to school with a promise from my sister that as soon as they knew anything they would call the school. Finally, in French class, I heard an announcement over the PA.  They were calling me and my nephew, G , to the office. When I got to the office I saw my sister, G's mother, standing outside of it's glass walls waiting on us. My pace quickened and my eyes blurred... why was she here to deliver the news in person? It must be bad. Real bad.

But then I saw her smile. And the tears spilled from my eyes and I hugged her. Because I knew. And I was right. God had healed him. The tumor that yesterday was killing him had completely disappeared. No sign of it whatsoever. His color was normal. He was no longer on morphine. In fact, he was demanding to go home. However, Daddy's doctor was hearing none of it. He didn't believe in God, nor Jesus, nor miraculous healing. The doctor just couldn't explain it. He didn't believe it. They did everything but turn my daddy inside out looking for that tumor, and now... 12 years later... they're still coming up empty.

Do I think that every time we pray for healing that it will happen? No. God answers every prayer we pray.  And sometimes the answer is "No." I don't know why God healed my father. Maybe Daddy's healing was a testimony to someone. I don't know. But I am thankful nonetheless. Because I am a Daddy's Girl.