Dad's Voice

As I reached to turn off the lamp on my bedside table, my eyes fell on the card my brother Isaac had given each of us siblings on what would have been Dad’s sixty-eighth birthday.

Rebekah Weaver

I was ready for bed. As I reached to turn off the lamp on my bedside table, my eyes fell on the card my brother Isaac had given each of us siblings on what would have been Dad’s sixty-eighth birthday. It was a musical card with a photo of Dad smiling inside. When you opened it, a recording of Dad’s baritone singing one of his silly, signature songs would play. The card stood beside my bed, propped open just enough so the recording wouldn’t go off.

It had been a year and a half since Dad had died of a rare form of blood cancer, and I missed him every day.

A pastor for 15 years, my dad was a joyful man with a big heart. He always went above and beyond. When my house burned down a few years ago, we didn’t have insurance. Dad took it upon himself to make things right. He called everyone he knew to raise the funds we’d need to rebuild.