My Father's Love

I am 82 years of age
and am beginning to understand 
how much my father
loved me. 

We were never close and I didn’t always understand him,
but I knew he loved me 
and now I understand how much.

It has become a revelation. 
So I wonder if he knew how much 
I returned that love.

He respected my education, also envied, 
having had less than a semester in college 
when sent as a missionary to Africa.

I knew he studied his Bible every day,
had at least one commentary 
that he daily read, 

but never had the chance to learn Greek.
He was good at language; 
fluent in German and Swedish 

and was teaching himself Mexicano. 
Still he took to heart what he read. 
He was no fool.

All his life, he hungered for learning.

He didn’t understand the work I did,
but believed it was for the good

And supported me against my mother. 
Even so, he loved her
and understood her anger was in part his fault.

It was his fate and he accepted. 
I respected that, 
but I know I ached for his loss. 

And I know I never really thanked him
since I wasn’t old enough then
to understand.

But now I am, so can and do.  
Perhaps, he knows.
But I wish I could see him and hug him,

or, least of all, shake his hand. 
At that time, 
it was what fathers and sons could do.