Hold Me Dad

In the late 1950’s, when I was just a wee tot, I got the chicken pox.  I was feverish, miserable and my entire little body seemed to itch from the inside out. 

I vividly remember my Dad holding me (in the 1950’s easy chair rocker, in the photo above, which my younger brother still has) and saying, “don’t scratch, it will make it worse, just scratch me instead.”  

So I did.  I reached up and scratched the shoulder of the arm he had wrapped around me.

 

The itch became a small tickle as I transferred the unbearable discomfort through my tiny fingers to my Dad’s strong back.

I recovered, life moved forward and both Dad and I battled our own demons along the way, with others and each other, but I shall never forget that pure act of Love he gave to me that day, or the Power it had to heal my Spirit when my Physical Self was in such pain. 

 I guess this life memory drifts to the top of my mind today because we’ve all been asked to “stay home”, and it seems to be so very difficult for some. 

We’re not used to being told what to do. 

Our independence, the thing we value (and take for granted) the most, is now our biggest obstacle. 

We’re not used to being slapped down, on our own turf, by an invisible killer. 

As the media does it’s typical “focus on the extremely negative” dance and the politicians throw sticks and stones at each other, WE are the Force that determines the number of casualties of this war.

How would I have felt, as chicken pox ravaged through my small child body, if I had been abandoned and left to suffer in my room, all alone?  I can’t imagine what that kind of empty loneliness must feel like. 

No strong arms to embrace me.

No words of comfort to sooth me.

No strong shoulder to scratch.

Nothing but pain and fear and an emptiness that stretched through a hellish eternity.   

Wow….

I’m sure Dad had LOTS of work to do.  We scratched a meager living from a farm that required attention 24/7.  There were cows to milk twice a day, hundreds of hogs and chickens to be fed, pens to be cleaned, eggs to be gathered, fences to mend, fields to plow, plant and harvest, equipment to be repaired and maintained.

Dad wasn’t used to being told what to do. 

He was a farmer who proudly enjoyed his independence even though it came with back breaking conditions.  He came from a long line of fiercely independent farmers that stretched back through a dozen, or more, generations. 

He worked from before dawn until long after dark, because that’s what a farmer does to pay the bills and feed his family.

Then one day, his little girl got hit with an invisible killer.

He stopped everything. 

Life as he knew it would just have to wait.

He had my back.

He chose a priority that, over 60 years later, rises to the top of my mind like it was yesterday. 

How can I offer any less than that now?

I can’t.

Thanks for the lesson Dad.