Memories of Service

I'm pretty hard on my parents.  I am quick to say that they have had unimaginable difficulties in their lives and then in the same breath condemn them for not trying harder.  I'm trying to work on grace and mercy. This week, however, when I was teaching about a servant hearted life, the image of my father walking through the door covered in snow returned to me.  It was in the 80s when Pennsylvania was still regularly blanketed with snow all winter long.  My father drove a large red and white Ford Bronco that was a hallmark of our family vacations and our life in general.  Usually he walked in the door around half past three in the afternoon.  His factory job started early and ended early.  This particular day, as the snow raged outside, he didn't return home.  We expected that he might be a little late due to the weather conditions, but hours passed and the night was upon us. The snow piled up outside.  Still my father was not home.   Panicked in the pre-cell phone days, we began to fear that the worst was possible until he finally opened the door.  My mother shrieked, "where were you?" He responded, in his usual duty bound way, that he simply could not drive past all of the people who were spinning out and getting stuck and so he stopped at each car lodged in a ditch to use the power of his truck to pull them out.  

When I think about my dad's truest and best identity, this is who I know him to be.  He imparted that spirit to me, but somehow it seems lost for him and I wonder if age and trial rob us of our best selves.