A Tribute to my Father?
Before it is to Late
If you have a gray haired Father
In the old home far away.
Sit you down and write the letter
You put off from day to day.
Don't wait until his weary steps
Reach Heaven's pearly gates
But show him that you think of him
Before it is to late.
If you have a tender message
Or a loving word to say,
Don't wait till you forget it,
But whisper it today.
Who knows what bitter memories
May haunt you if you wait?
So make your loved one happy before it is to late.
The tender word unspoken,
The letters never sent,
The long forgotten messages
The wealth of love unspent;
For these some hearts are breaking
For these some loved ones wait.
Show them that you care for them
Before it is to late.Dad we love you so much.
Any one can call themself a Dad. It takes someone real Special to call themself a Father. And Dad you are that some one Special to me.
We came across this old poem and thought it very fitting to put here as a tribute to my Father and all Father's and Grndfathers.
We adopted this just special for all Dad's. Isn't it just beautiful?
Children Do Not Realize
As children, we can't comprehend or fully realize,
The meaning of a Father's love,
how tender and how wise,
His patience and his guidence,
his helpful, caring ways,
The special, thoughtful things he does to brighten up our days.
Years go by before we know the depth of his concern,
The love in his protectiveness-
It takes so long to learn.
But as we grow, we understand,
for we look back and see,
Through older eyes and wiser hearts,
his love and loyality.
It's these and many other things
that make him grow more dear,
More admired, and more appreciated
with every passing yer.
A Father's Love
Fathers seldom say "I love you"
Though the feeling's always there,
But somehow those three little words
Are the hardest ones to share.
And fathers say "I love you"
In ways that words can't match -
With tender bedtime stories -
Or a friendly game of catch!
You can see the words "I love you"
In a father's boyish eyes
When he runs home, all excited,
With a poorly wrapped surprise.
A father says "I love you"
With his strong helping hands -
With a smile when you're in trouble
With the way he understands.
He says "I love you" haltingly,
With awkward tenderness -
(It's hard to help a four-year-old into a party dress!)
He speaks his love unselfishly
By giving all he can
To make some secret dream come true,
Or follow through a plan.
A father's seldom-spoken love
Sounds clearly through the years -
Sometimes in peals of laughter,
Sometimes through happy tears.
Perhaps they have to speak their love
In a fashion all their own.
Because the love that fathers feel
Is too big for words alone!
By Author Unknown
When God Created Fathers
When the good lord was creating fathers, he started with a tall frame.
A female angel nearby said, " What kind of father is that? If you're going to make children so close to the ground, why heve you put fathers up so high? He won't be able to shoot marbles without kneeling, tuck a child into bed without bending or even kiss a child without a lot of stooping."
..... And God smiled and said, "Yes, but if I made him child-size, who would the children have to look up to?"
And when God made a father's hands, they were large and sinewy.
The angel shook her head sadly and said, "Do you know what you're doing? Large hands are clumsy. They can't manage diaper pins, small buttons, rubber bands on ponytails or even remove splinters caused by baseball bats."
.....And God smiled and said, "I know, but they're large enough to hold everything a small boy empties from his pockets at the end of a day, yet small enough to cup a child's face.
And the God molded long, slim legs and broad shoulders. The angel nearby nearly had a heart attack. "Boy, this is the end of the week, alright," she chuckled. "Do you realize you just made a father without a lap? How is he going to pull a child close to him with out the kid falling between his legs?"
.....And God smiled and said, A mother needs a lap. A father needs strong shoulders to pull a sled, balance a boy on a bicycle or hold a sleepy head on the way home from the circus." God was in the middle of creating two of the largest feet anyone had ever seen when the angel could contain herself no longer. "Thats not fair. Do you honestly think those large boats are going to dig out of bed early in the morning when the baby cries? Or walk through a small birthday party without crushing at least three of the guests?"
...And God smiled and said, They'll work you'll see. They'll suport a small child who wants to ride a horse to Banbury Cross or scare off mice at the summer cabin or displays hoes that will be a challenge to fill." God worked through the night, giving the father few words but a firm authoritative voice and eyes that saw everything but remained calm and tolerant.
Finally, almost as an afterthought, He added tears. Then he turned to the angel and said. "Now, are you satisfied that he can love as much as a mother?"
The angel shutteth up.
My Dad's Hands
Bedtime came, we were settling down,
I was holding one of my lads.
As I grasped him so tight, I saw a strange sight:
My hands. . .they looked like my dad's!
I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks,
there was always a cracked nail or two.
And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark,
his thumb was a beautiful blue!
They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough,
as strong as a carpenter's vice.
But holding a scared little boy at night,
they seemed to me awfully nice!
The sight of those hands - how impressive it was
in the eyes of his little boy.
Other dads' hands were cleaner, it seemed
(the effects of their office employ).
I gave little thought in my formative years
of the reason for Dad's raspy mitts:
The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil,
rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!
Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead,
when one day my time is done.
The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands
will pass on to the hands of my son.
I don't mind the bruises, the scars here and there
or the hammer that just seemed to slip.
I want most of all when my son takes my hand,
to feel that love lies in the grip.
By David Kettler