Through the Eyes of Devotion

As I said before, my father's love and devotion for mom could be found in his eyes when speaking silently to her from across a room. As children, from our room we could hear the two of them laughing and playing together in another part of our home. One afternoon when we were supposed to be napping (they sure made us take a lot of naps back then -- and now I know why!), the three of us (ages five, eight and twelve) climbed on the bed closest to our bedroom door, and through a crack in the door, we spied all the way into the living room. That's where we could see them laughing and playing together. Then one of us (me) left out a giggle and mom, from the living room, cautioned us that we'd better be getting our nap. We each then hurried back to our own beds, but I haven't forgotten the fun we had that day, spying on mom and dad. It was as if we had gotten a glimpse of something that no one else ever knew about our parents. It was our secret.

Unity was quiet apparent to us and flourished to evidence what family meant when I was growing up. I remember one occasion when dad was building a home for Carole's pet rabbit "Genevieve". The three of us (Carole, Martha, and myself) watched from the sidelines. After a little while, mom brought out some lemonade, and dad took a break from his building and we enjoyed the refreshments together. That cage could have held three hundred rabbits easily. I guess dad didn't want to keep putting on additions if Genevieve ever started a family.

Even in the years closer to mom's death, dad didn't falter in his love and devotion to her. Not one word of complaint ever was spoken during those years when caring for her needs. When he looked at her, he didn't see her as a burden, you just knew it, and I'll tell you why. When he looked at her he would get a smile on his face that was made for her alone. Somehow, laughter still filled our home as did the love.