I still remember Father's hurried stride
as, playing with my cars in passageways,
my sister further down with doll-soirees,
myopically he'd brush right by my side.
Not that he was unfriendly or too stern
-- his life was made of many small routines
that did not let in cuddly filial scenes,
but focused on God's ultimate concern.
He preached to strangers, wrote a row of books,
and twice achieved a doctorate degree
-- his knowledge of the Word the guarantee
that all his work was worth the life it took.
In retrospect, I think he wrote to hide
from confrontation with the world out there,
and when I brush past life I am aware
I still remember Father's hurried stride.