He smiled only when he really meant it. That smile, slightly crooked, slightly silly, would creep up into his eyes and fill his entire being. If he didn't think it worth the smile, he wouldn't smile, he would make a face. How many faces he had! But his smile was the best, because it reached his very soul. Those big brown eyes would crinkle up at the corners as his whole face crumpled into that joyous expression. He smiled best when he forgot he didn't have his "teeth" in. The gaps really didn't matter - they were a part of who he was at the time.
If he didn't think the situation really merited a smile, he would cock one eyebrow, tilt his head slightly back, and look at you with a half mocking, half humorous look on his face. He could be serious as well. He wiped his face clean of the humor and looked at you in such a way that you knew that, whatever you said, his response would follow some serious deliberation. There were tears too. He was not afraid to cry, though he didn't enjoy it. But if he hurt emotionally, he cried. The times I remember best were when he was young. He cried when a family in the church left to go elsewhere. His love for this family left him devastated at their departure. He knew he would see them again, but he wept still. He cried out of frustration when he disappointed his father. It was not out of selfish ambition, but because he knew that he had failed someone he trusted and loved.
A big man, he could be gentle as well as rambunctious. If he saw another crying or hurting, he gave them a hug. If they were in serious pain, he made sure they were taken care of with as little discomfort as possible. If they were a child, he would scoop them up, tickle them, play with them, and left them wanting him to come back and do it again.
He was not a very quiet individual. His jokes echoed around the room, followed by his loud laugh. He laughed so well, and the sound was so full. He coveted joy. His had a confident stride. He entered a room without hesitating. His stride was not necessarily fast, but it was long. He knew where he wanted to go, and he went. I can still hear the heals of his worn out cowboy boots clicking on the tile as he walked into the worship service on Sunday. I can still hear the noisy stride, the rush of air as he opened the door, and his voice loudly marking his entrance into our house. He would drop everything quite noisily and plop himself down in the slouching blue chair, or onto the worn-out couch. The cover never seemed to stay put whenever he sat on that couch.
There are so many memories I have of him. They are all jumbled together in a colorful, noisy mess. As I pick them apart and put them together again piece by piece, I see a face. And it is the face of a beautiful person.
If he didn't think the situation really merited a smile, he would cock one eyebrow, tilt his head slightly back, and look at you with a half mocking, half humorous look on his face. He could be serious as well. He wiped his face clean of the humor and looked at you in such a way that you knew that, whatever you said, his response would follow some serious deliberation. There were tears too. He was not afraid to cry, though he didn't enjoy it. But if he hurt emotionally, he cried. The times I remember best were when he was young. He cried when a family in the church left to go elsewhere. His love for this family left him devastated at their departure. He knew he would see them again, but he wept still. He cried out of frustration when he disappointed his father. It was not out of selfish ambition, but because he knew that he had failed someone he trusted and loved.
A big man, he could be gentle as well as rambunctious. If he saw another crying or hurting, he gave them a hug. If they were in serious pain, he made sure they were taken care of with as little discomfort as possible. If they were a child, he would scoop them up, tickle them, play with them, and left them wanting him to come back and do it again.
He was not a very quiet individual. His jokes echoed around the room, followed by his loud laugh. He laughed so well, and the sound was so full. He coveted joy. His had a confident stride. He entered a room without hesitating. His stride was not necessarily fast, but it was long. He knew where he wanted to go, and he went. I can still hear the heals of his worn out cowboy boots clicking on the tile as he walked into the worship service on Sunday. I can still hear the noisy stride, the rush of air as he opened the door, and his voice loudly marking his entrance into our house. He would drop everything quite noisily and plop himself down in the slouching blue chair, or onto the worn-out couch. The cover never seemed to stay put whenever he sat on that couch.
There are so many memories I have of him. They are all jumbled together in a colorful, noisy mess. As I pick them apart and put them together again piece by piece, I see a face. And it is the face of a beautiful person.
1 comment:
Yes. *hugs*
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