Marshall Ramsey

Alarms screamed down the hospital’s hall, nurses scattered like ants and a father was left standing alone, impotent.  His wife had been rushed to the operating room. Chaos ruled. The look on the doctor’s face was grim.

His newborn son was dying and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“Dear God,” he cried, convinced no one had heard him.

But he was heard — The little boy lived.  The frail child beat the odds and surprised everyone. And as he lay in the nursery, the father looked through the window and wrote down a few words on the back of a piece of paper. He then folded the note carefully and put it in his pocket.

Over the years, the little boy struggled some more.  Tests, diagnosis, official opinions, unofficial opinions, family opinions, doctors’ appointments, more tests — the child was poked, prodded and pulled in five different directions. “He’ll never __________,” —  If the father had had a dime for every time he had heard that, he would have been able to pay for all the tests. He smiled as he looked down at his striped shirt. It was the shirt his son had bled all over after he had pulled his IV out. Peroxide had taken the blood out. But the shirt meant a lot to the father.  He had comforted his son while wearing that shirt.

Now it was starting all over again. The boy’s life had taken another challenging turn and the tests started up all over again. The mother and father knew it was once again up to them. But they knew there was a spark in this child’s heart. He would prove the experts wrong. Just like he had the day he was born.

The father stood over his son as he slept.  He watched as the boy’s little pink cheeks expanded with each sleepy breath. His boy was surrounded by toy sentinels and a father’s love. The dad pulled out of his pocket a scrap of paper and read the words he had jotted down so many years ago.

Dear Son,

I watched you fight to be born. It was touch and go, but you did it. You proved everyone wrong. 

My son, you are my joy.  You share my name. And now you are my reason for living. I am proud to now be a supporting actor in your life’s amazing movie. I’ll help you write the script. I’ll direct you. I’ll produce the production.  I’ll help you overcome life’s obstacles. And I’ll be standing to cheer when you receive life’s Oscar.

I know you will live an amazing life. And I will be there for you every step of the way. It’s time for me to step up and be a man — to be your father.

Love,

Dad.

The love that swelled in the father’s heart poured over his body like anointed oil.  His purpose on this earth was now crystal clear — it was time to commit his life to another. He kissed his son’s cheek and folded the paper and put it safely back into his pocket. He would read it to his son again tomorrow night and every night after that. He would help him through his struggles.

Only he could understand his love for the amazing little boy. It was his love. A father’s love.

When I was a kid (a trillion, zillion years ago), I used to dread trips to the graveyard . My grandparents would go and pay their respects to dead relatives who I had never met.  I didn’t want to be there. I had no past and no real memories to speak of. I didn’t know the people under the marble slabs. And graveyards creeped me out.

Yesterday, 40 years later, I pulled into the same graveyard. I parked my car and walked silently between the tombstones as the Smoky mountains loomed like timeless sentinels  in the distance.

I had come to visit my grandparents.

I felt peace as I talked to them.  I asked them for guidance.  Although they didn’t answer me, I knew they were with me.  On that cold, windy Maryville afternoon, I felt warmth.  The warmth I used to feel when I was that kid following them around the graveyard.  It was the warmth from the knowledge that all four of them loved me so very much.

I lost the last one in 2001. Twelve years later, I still carry that love with me.

As I was walking through the silent field of stone back to my car, I thought of something sobering:

We are two generations from no one knowing who we were. We are  like footsteps in a snowstorm.