My father’s shoes….

It’s really odd, the things we remember. As I get older, it seems I remember more and more random things!

It was a normal Saturday evening: Our family was nestled together in our small den to watch television. Dad entered the room carrying his shoeshine kit and big, black leather wingtips. We were all too engrossed in the magic of black and white images that danced on the screen before our eyes to notice what he was doing. Before long the whole room was filled with that wonderful smell of shoe wax, as dad carefully and expertly applied the paste, rubbed it into the well-worn leather, and buffed it to a glassy sheen. When he finished his labor he placed the shoes beside his chair and reclined.

During the next commercial break our family scattered – some to one bathroom or another, some to the kitchen for snacks, some to stretch their legs. One by one we returned to our claimed spots – some on the sofa, a few others on the floor on pillows, the side chair held mom, and dad was still in his recliner. As I walked by his chair I couldn’t resist – I slipped my small, narrow feet into those big, freshly polished shoes. Before long, my siblings’ chuckles became guffaws as I tried my best to walk around the furniture and reclining bodies. Of course, I stumbled and tripped attempting to place one over-laden foot in front of the other. The more my brother and sisters laughed the more determined I became. It wasn’t long before I became frustrated, realizing that I couldn’t do it – I couldn’t walk in dad’s shoes. Ready to give up in discouragement I glanced back at dad. I’ll never forget what I saw. Dad was smiling. Not only his mouth, but his whole face was smiling – even his eyes. Dad had fun filled, laughing eyes – “full of mischief,” my mom used to say.

I knew the expression on his face was not the result of amusement, but of pride. For some odd reason he was proud of me for trying to walk in his huge shoes, an impossible task for such small feet in such large shoes.

Later that week I asked my dad to teach me how to shine my shoes. It took a few months before I could polish them into a shine. Until then dad would “help me” finish the job, deftly fixing my smudges and dull spots with a quick buff with a brush or cloth. He made it look so easy and effortless. Sometimes he would tell me stories of how his dad taught him to shine shoes. He would tell of the many different ways friends of his used to get just the right type of shine.

I don’t remember my age at the time, but I do remember the feeling I got when dad asked me to polish his shoes for him. I couldn’t believe my ears. He even said he would give me a quarter each week I did the job well! What an incredible complement. I knew the pride he took in his shoes being shined just so for church each Sunday morning. And now he was letting me shine his shoes for him. It was a right of passage for me. It was the passing of a baton. I had reached a huge point of growth.

Shoes were for dad a symbol. Until his later years when he got too sick to talk much, he would repeat the story in my hearing – always in my hearing – about the time he looked down as I was headed out the door for church – and he saw his shoes walking out the door on my feet. Why? Why was that story so important to tell? What did it represent for him? They were just shoes, leather and string, die and wax, expertly formed into quality black, size 9.5, wingtips.

I think, in some odd way, that those shoes made him feel he had succeeded with me. Not only had I grown into a semi-responsible teenager, I still wanted to wear my old man’s shoes. And he was proud.

Tonight I felt similar pride. I took my son with me to our statewide collegiate spring retreat. I was asked to take care of the audio/video for the weekend. Because our newest family member was just born 9 days ago, I only planned to spend one night away from home. The event was to be held at our north Georgia conference center, in the foothills of the Smokies. Nick loves the mountains. So I asked him to come with me – “maybe we can do some hiking,” I told him.

The day had been a long one, going from music store to music store in the attempt to rent the growing list of equipment the event required. By the time we finally left Athens – 3 hours late, Nick was frustrated. He knew we would not get in an afternoon hike. After entertaining himself for several hours while we unloaded and set-up equipment and performed numerous sound checks, he was fairly worn out and hungry. After grabbing some supper, he opted for childcare instead of staying with me in the opening worship service. After the main service was over, I picked him up and took him back to the auditorium with me for the late night praise extravaganza that our praise band was leading. Nick loves music. He loves to sing. Most evenings after supper he disappears to his room, turns on his radio (loud!) and sings along to Christian pop.

As the band began to play and the crowd joined in song I glanced down at Nick – he was on his feet just like the students. He was following the words projected overhead on the huge screens. And he was singing (loud!). Every few minutes I glanced his direction. Each time he was lost in song. Before long, his hands went up as he sang, “to you we lift our hands.” I smiled. Not only my mouth, but my whole face was smiling – even my eyes. I’ve been told that I have eyes like my dad; fun filled, laughing eyes – “full of mischief,” my mom used to say. The expression on my face was not the result of amusement, but pride.

Seeing my son freely praising God in song – hands lifted high, voice loudly singing, face lifted toward the heavens – is one of the most satisfying, experiences I’ve had as a dad. Somehow in that moment I felt a kinship with my dad. Nick was walking in my shoes – and he looked better than me in them. Raise in traditional Southern Baptist churches, I’ve always felt a bit self conscious about raising my hands when I sing. Oh I’ll sing, and loud. But expressing my faith and my praise with my body is something that is foreign and forced for me. It just doesn’t feel nature. I wish I could do it. I’ve tried. It just isn’t me. I feel I’m doing it more for show than for worship. So I’ve decided that until I can raise my hands in praise of God – and only in praise of God – I won’t do it.

But it seems to me that Nick has learned to praise God better than I do, better than I can. It seems he wears my shoes better than I do, better than I can.

And so I smile. And I remember. It’s really odd the things we remember….

“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord: (5) and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength. (6) And these words, which I command you today, shall be in your heart: (7) And you shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise up.” Deuteronomy 6:4-7

Surreal

Surreal, it was absolutely surreal. Looking back, I see only flashes; fleeting moments that I cannot completely comprehend, much less fully recall.

Arriving at St. Mary’s Hospital before six a.m. with only decaf coffee and Pop Tarts in my body is not the best way start the day. Though we don’t talk about it, both Karen and I are rather nervous about the pending ordeal. I pull our Maxima around the circle toward the main entrance. “Thanks, this is nice,” she says.

Feeling like a sixteen-year-old driver on his first date, I try to explain, “What do you expect? It’s the least I can do. You are having the baby, after all.”

After parking the car, I meet her in the vast, polished lobby of the hospital. She had found a seat between two older folks who look as if they had spent the night in the comfy leather chairs. As we make our way toward the elevators, the couple wishes us well. “Good luck,” they sing in unison.

When we get to the third floor we are greeted by a friendly-face, “Karen Byrd?” she asks, glancing at the printer orders she holds in her right hand, as her left hand absentmindedly punches the stainless steel square on the wall above the desk, opening the door to admit us into the ward.

“Ah, they’re expecting us! Imagine that.” I mutter in a failed attempt at humor. It is too early for such a sad grasp for laughs – not even friendly-face laughs.

The double fire doors to the left slowly began to open, granting us entrance into the protected corridors beyond. As we round the wood and glass enclosed nursing station, the friendly-faced nurse meets us. She leads us down a short hallway. “That,” she gestures and explains as we passed glowing, clouded glass doors on our right, “is the surgery center, just a short walk from your room.”

As we arrive at room 3122 another smiling, friendly-face joins us – this one seems only twelve years old – maybe. Karen sits on the bed. I wander around the room. It does not take me long to spy my abode for the next few nights – a bed, not so cleverly designed to impersonate a sofa. Though it is folded like a luxurious futon, experience tells me not to expect anything near comfort. I spy a 21-inch flat panel TV tucked into a nook near my “bed”. I almost grow excited – maybe I will be able to catch some Olympic coverage in HD!

While the friendly-faced smiling nurses instruct Karen about what to put on and where to wait, I find a place to sit. I manage to catch a few words of the conversation, enough to figure out that this will be our room until we check out three or four days from now. “Sweet!” I thought, “Nice room.”

Flash – the doors open and I walk into the icy air and head out to unload the car. I figure there is no sense just sitting around, letting my anxiety take control (and maybe be noticed by someone else, I am an ego-centric man, you know).

As I exit the soaring atrium back through the main entrance, I see a lone figure bobbing towards me in the darkness between streetlights. A voice breaks the chill, “Hey Nathan.”

I am taken aback, not expecting anyone to meet us this early. I know Karen’s folks will be heading up just before 8:00 after seeing our two older (and adopted) kids safely onto the school bus. I attempt to scan my mental database of voices, body types, and folks who know our schedule, but my decaffeinated mind draws a blank. I recognize the voice, but no face comes to mind. “Dang decaf!” wanders across my mind like a scrolling marquee on a bank sign.

Then, out of the darkness a light dawns, Karol!

Karol, my wife’s best friend that we hardly ever get to see now that we have left metro Atlanta, has driven over an hour in predawn traffic to be with us. Man, I am relieved to have the company! Karol backtracks with me to the lower parking lot where I grab Karen’s suitcase and my laptop.

Flash – Doctor Elder comes in… exchanges quips with Karen. He says something that I think I need to remember…, I have no idea what it is, nor how long he stays….the rotund anesthesiologist with the game show announcer’s voice seems to float into the room. I think we all laugh at something. Though I have pictures of me clad in scrubs, standing beside Karen as she lay in the bed in the room, I have no remembrance of getting dressed or posing! All too soon Karen is walking out with the friendly-faced nurses with me I trailing behind. I remember sitting on the lone bench, the surgery bullpen, outside of those milky white, glowing glass doors. Karen’s parents and Karol take pictures of the new dad-to-be all decked out in green from head to toe and make a few quips to ease my nerves. It doesn't work. I manage a weak smile beneath the surgical mask.

I don’t know how long I wait – seems like an eternity passes in a second or two. Lots of folks come and go through those milky white, glowing glass doors. It seems like time is moving in triple time, like a fast forwarded a video tape – caps, masks and booties fly out of the wardrobe adjacent to my bench. Nurses and aids talk in high-pitched gibberish as they ready for surgery. Friendly-faces are covered with green cloth, leaving only smiling-eyes peeking through.

The milky white, glowing glass parts again revealing an icy-cold brightness into which I am drawn by a beckoning, now scrub-clad, friendly-faced nurse.

Flash – I am sitting on a cold stool in a freezing room whispering into Karen’s ear, kissing her hair, as she shivers and her teeth chatter. she is ensconced in green drapes, wires, needles, and tubes. We are behind a drape with the anesthesiologist and all his devices of pain-retarding torture. On the other side is a flurry of activity. Bright lights shimmer between the threads of green, 80’s rock dances and echoes from wall to wall as the cadre of scrub-clad attendants prepares for their debuts in the grand performance that had just begun. “Here we go” the doctor’s voice floated through the fabric.

Karen shudders. I hold her ice-cold hands. “I’m freezing! She explains, “They tried to warm me up with all these blankets,” indicating the piles of oddly placed coverings on her splayed arms.

Before I had only seen her head, but now I notice that she is lying cruciform – her arms stretched wide from her body on extensions of the table on which she lay. I suppose I thought all of the fabric was a part of the elaborate drape system that had been erected to keep her from seeing the action around the lower half of her torso.

“Make sure you do everything you need to do before you close me up!” Karen reiterates to the unseen doctor several times throughout the procedure. She didn't want to risk another “miracle baby.”

“It would take divine intervention for you to get pregnant after this,” he counters.

Karen shoots back, “that’s what this one was. You better do better than that.”

“Make it God-proof?” he queries, amusement in his voice. The whole team chuckles in unison.

Months earlier, in response to an inquiry for a tubal ligation during the requested c-section, Dr. Elder cautioned, “You know these things are not 100% guarantees. A very small percentage of women get pregnant after such procedures.”

Karen, always ready with sarcasm, responds, “Oh, you better make sure it’s 100%! Do whatever you have to do. Take stuff out, I don’t care! I don’t plan to use any of it ever again.”

It is not long before the anesthesiologist encourages, “Dad, you may want to stand up. Something exciting is about to happen.”

It is only then that I leave my bride’s head to look over the wall of green. The lights are so bright it takes a few minutes to adjust to what I am seeing. It is surreal. Her abdomen has been covered with yellow-brown Betadine, followed by a clear film, and then surrounded by more green fabric. Just as realization dawns, bloody water gushes across the film, then the fabric. Doctor Elder’s gloved hands are buried in Karen’s tummy and his assistant tugs on a large stainless steal bar hooked around what looks like yellow rubber. At some point, I realize this is Karen’s incision. Doc is widening the opening for his searching figures. I can not believe how much effort is given by the attendant as she pulls, and the doctor, as he finally finds what he is seeking and then stains to pull a white mass out of the opening. At first, I don't realize what he is holding. Confused, I think that there must be some wad of fat or covering that he had to remove; and then I see it – tiny hips and buttocks slowly wriggling out of Karen’s womb – then legs, and feet, and a back. One expert hand gently reaches in again, searching, finding, and then twisting and supporting a tiny head, guiding it cleanly into the blinding lights. I am shocked by how ghastly white the tiny body is. My pulse quickens. Time freezes. I fear something is wrong. Then I hear it, a cry; even before her mouth emerges, I hear the beautiful sound of my baby's clear, soft cry.

Flash – In relief I drop back onto the stool, my face returning to my wife’s. Tears blind my eyes. I choke out a whisper, “You do good work! She’s perfectly beautiful.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” I repeat until, around the corner of the curtain, the doctor holds up our blood and goop covered daughter for Karen to see for the first time. I nudge her to look. Once her head is turned, she says in drug muted monotone, “I only like them once they have been cleaned up.” She turns back to me and the amused doctor passes our daughter to the next team. Friendly-faced nurses immediately get to work cleaning, prodding, warming, suctioning, and drying the tiny writhing, crying, infant girl.

There is a moment when all seems to stop, a moment frozen in time where all sound is muted, all movement ceases, and my eyes lock into the glassy stare of Karen’s deep brown gaze. My fear is gone, her shivering calms, and we are one again, lost in the wonder of life.

The anesthesiologists voice breaks our gaze, starting the sound and action in the room again; “Dad, you can take some pictures.”

I think I snap a few shots and ask a few silly questions of the scrubbed friendly-faces feverishly working around the odd wheeled table that held our pink, screaming child.

Flash – I am handed our tiny swaddled daughter, she is so light! I bend to introduce her to my bride; Here’s Karlie.” We both choke with emotion, my eyes again filling with tears.

One set of smiling-eyes gently tears me away from my wife’s side to carry the tiny bundle to the next room. I obediently follow, tear-filled eyes locked onto the minuscule features on the round face peaking through the blankets. “I know that face,” I think. My wife’s complexion, cleft chin, dark hair, and upper lip are molded there in miniature.

As we enter the nursery, I look through the large windows in the distance. Karen’s dad and Karol see me and rush to the glass to view the bundle in my arms. Karen’s mom comes into view, cell phone pressed against her ear, already announcing the birth.

Flash – fast-forward, events blur in my memory as they pass – tears, laughter, and joy as Karlie is measured, prodded, twisted, and examined some more. The nurse is incredible and lots of fun; not just another friendly-face, but also a comforting mom who has done this many times before.

A wall phone connects me to the folks outside of the nursery allowing me to pass along vital information – weight, length, time of birth, hair color, as well as Karen's condition.

Flash – Doctor Elder suddenly appears, expertly assuring me that all went well – twenty more minutes and I can go see my bride.

More measuring, poking, bathing, crying, and snapping of pictures before I am able to hold my tiny girl again. As I bend over her, my fingers remembering, gently applying her first diaper and calming her cries with soft caresses on the back of her head and across her tiny, slender fingers.

Flash – a realization – we made this life together. She is a part of Karen and me. And we are a part of her. We do good work. Together.

Flash – a tidal wave of emotion – I miss my dad. He would love this moment. Then a realization – he is watching. And smiling – his blessing surrounds us, breathing in Karlie. I can imagine this bitty girl, cradled against his soft tummy – we used to call it our pillow – safe in his experienced, loving Papa-arms.

Flash – back in room 3122, returning once again to my wife’s side. A few tears trail unnoticed down my check as I look at her with a sudden depth of love I have not known in our 20 years of marriage. She is cold, freezing cold. Piled with six inches of white blankets, Karen shivers beneath the covers though the heat in the room is dialed to 85°.

The room quickly fills with excited family, friends, and many bustling friendly-faces. I retrieve our daughter from the nursery in a rolling bassinette. Everyone ogles and “coos”…it is surreal – she is finally here.

Flash – I am back. It’s 2:00 a.m., the second day –memories flash through my fingers onto the laptop screen, casting preternatural light throughout the dark room. Karen silently sleeps beside me in her hospital bed. It is finished. We are done. Yet we are beginning anew.

As the memories continue to flash, I am blown away. Love is amazing – it engulfs me, and I swim deep within it’s waves. Sobs rack my body as I remember – surreal experiences of the past few years – my father’s death, beginning a PhD program at UGA, the shock of an unplanned miracle pregnancy, a roller-coaster ride of my wife’s emotions, the joy brought by our two now eight year-olds at home, and now Karlie Nicole.

She is incomprehensible. She is grace embodied. And I am in love again with another perfect little girl.

And most amazing of all – it is real.