It is nearing the end of a long week and I couldn’t be more thankful. My mind is frazzled and I can barely form a coherent thought. Which is why I am especially grateful for my sweet CPA who has offered to write today’s post. I think you’ll agree that it is beautifully written and definitely shows his sensitive side. So without further ado… the CPA!
(ps – I will be back in full form on Monday!)
It was a very quick two-day business trip that took me back to my hometown in Utah last week. The main purpose of the journey was not to see my parents, both of whom are 86. Rather, it was to give a couple of short speeches to some business groups. Since I have two sons that live in the area, I also needed to spend a little time with them. The folks, I’m afraid, were going to get the short end of this stick, and would only get to see me in the little bit of the 48 hours I had left over from these other commitments.
After arriving at the airport at almost midnight, by the time I arranged for the rental car and made the 45-minute drive to the town where I was born, it was way past my parents’ bedtime. I knew better than to awaken them – too much chance they wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. I would see them soon enough, I thought, first thing in the morning.
It had been only six weeks since I had been home, for another short visit, but when parents are elderly and ailing, you are never sure when the last visit will be.
Actually, though, I wanted to hear my folks as much as I wanted to see them. You see, one of my earliest memories is the sound of my mom and dad talking out in the kitchen first thing in the morning, before all the kids got up. They would sit at the table and drink their coffee and discuss their day. I could seldom hear more than a scattered word, but it was the sound of their conversation, my dad’s deep voice, punctuated with my mom’s higher and softer one, that I was yearning to hear.
There is something very comforting about this sound, something that has been there my entire 54 years. No matter where I lived or how long I had been away from home, I only had to go there and go to bed in that house, and there it would be the next morning – the sound of my parents talking. And even though they have turned gray and have become a bit wrinkled here and there, their voices are the same as I have always remembered.
As I awoke in the vaguely familiar yet strange bed of their spare bedroom last Thursday morning, I at first wondered where I was. Then I heard it, the muffled voices from the kitchen a few feet beyond the closed door. My folks were still there, still talking, and everything was OK, at least for today.
I know that one of these days, maybe not this month or even this year, I will yearn for that sound and it won’t be there any longer. It makes me sad to think about that, but for now, I thank the Lord that I can still hear the sound of my parents talking in the kitchen in the morning. It is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.
What special memory of your home or childhood do you have?
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