In His Hands

Lee in Brimfield, September 2008

My life began not at birth but a few weeks later when my father held me in his hands, placed me in his truck and we began to move. For years, we traveled as a trio.

The summer before my sixth year, my life changed. My mother at home belly full with the babe that would become my brother was placed on bed rest. My parents, preparing me for what would soon come, sent me off with my father for the summer.

The lessons I learned not forgotten.

In a hotel swimming pool, I made my first laps. I can still remember the feel of freedom as I doggy paddled across the small pool. My dad’s hands pushing me out and then catching me, if I needed him.

I felt the vibrations of consonants and vowels. Reading, a gift I have never let go, clicked that summer.

I laughed with my father and his friends.

Moments that make up the memories in my mind.

That fall, I entered school. My brother was born. My dad made the decision to settle into a new position so he could stay home to watch his children grow.

And so we lived. Until, the fall before my 13^th year when our family was forever changed. My dad struck by a man with a gun: a man who made a decision for our family. A man who took our family’s life in his hands and then cowardly took his own life.

My dad lived so we could too. Weeks in intensive care. Months in hospitals and rehabs learning to stand, to walk, to drive. To heal.

When it was over, we left behind our old life.

We had very little; but we had each other. Slowly, we would heal. Life began to take on a new shape for our family.

We moved forward.

Dad would drive again. My parents would start over.

As a teenager, I rebelled.I stayed far from my father's truck.

After high school, I went to college.

In the spring of my 21rst year, I would finally climb back into the cab of my dad’s truck. Together, we would cross our country.

The lessons I learned not forgotten.

For the first time, my dad and I talked about the shooting. He told me the story of his recovery – of the physical pain he still feels every day and the emotional pain that plagued him.

How he went back to work in an old beat up 18 wheeler. How he called in to another boss. How he measured his life by the pain pills and anti-depression meds he had to take each day. Of the night he placed his head in his hands, let the tears flow and then decided he would win this battle.

How he found the strength to overcome all of the pain and disappointment.

That is a personal story. A story that is not mine to tell.

A story that changed my life forever.

That fall, I went back to school. I would graduate with honors. I would find my first job. I would write. I would make my dad proud.

Again, years would pass before I would climb into the cab of my dad’s truck.

Then last fall, my belly full with the babe that would become my son, I took a trip with my dad. We went to New England: my dad to work the Brimfield show and me to play.

One afternoon, as the late summer heat made my body hot and all the walking made my feet swell, I looked to my dad’s truck for comfort. Inside, I propped my feet on the dash and sipped a cool drink.

Out the window, I saw my dad. For the first time in my life, I really saw my dad. His body beaten and scared. His curly hair full of gray. His leg tired and limping.

Working. Always working. Always moving.

My eyes filled with tears. I made the realization that everything in my life came so easily because my dad worked so hard. How could I ever let him know that I understood that now?

The love, gratitude, respect, and admiration I held for my dad could not possibly be summed up by the two simple words Thank and You.

So I said nothing.

Two months later, my son was born. Moments after his birth, the hospital room filled with family. All of them in awe of the child I just delivered. I watched from the side as they crowded around Lane talking to each other.

And then my dad looked over at me and smiled. He came to hug me. He told me I did good.

I should have told him that night. I should have told him that I could not have done it without him: that I summoned his strength. That I could not have done all the things in my life without him. But I could not speak.

I just smiled.

Months have gone by. My dad calls every day to ask about his grandson. He sees him as often as he can.

Last week, before dad left for a trip, I took Lane for a visit.

In the warehouse, Lane noticed dad driving his forklift. He could not take his eyes off my dad. He wiggled out of my arms. He knew what he wanted.

I placed my son in my father’s hands. Lane’s face filled with a smile. My dad kept at it all day. Working proudly with his grandson on his lap. The two of them beaming with happiness.

I watched from a distance.

As I saw my son with my father, I realized I might not ever find the words that will let my dad know how grateful I am. I don't have to. I found another way.

My love, respect and gratitude right there: Lane, in his hands.

Lane and Lee, July 2009