When my father went to be with the Lord a few years ago, I lost a piece of my heart. Maybe it’s a daddy-daughter thing, but you never truly know how meaningful a person is to you until you’re faced with losing them. My dad was up there in age, just months shy of turning the milestone 80, when he stroked out and died. He had been ill for several years, so we all knew that his time was coming. But his death was sudden, and it left me distraught.
I grew up knowing only a part of my dad. My parents divorced when I was very young, so my sister and I spent weekends in Baltimore City visiting with my paternal Pakistani family. When a child doesn’t have the opportunity to spend adequate time with a parent, it leaves a void. Even kids who are blessed to have both parents living under the same roof may feel that void if both parents are preoccupied with life and unable to offer physical or emotional attention. My dad was the quintessential overprotective parent who loved us considerably, provided for us, and always made sure that he maximized the time he could spend with us under the court order. Still, in some ways he was the greatest man I never knew.
He was a devout Muslim who took my sister and I to the mosque on weekends, where we would sit in separate quarters with our female Pakistani family, pray, and learn about Islam and Arabic in class. It was quite a contrast from the Methodist church that we sometimes visited with my mom and stepdad out in the country. Talk about religious and spiritual confusion. Each faith shares beautiful tenets that honor one God, but each faith has fundamental differences. The beauty of being raised in two religions was that it broadened my horizons and taught me tolerance.
I renewed my faith in Jesus Christ when I was thirty years old. My father respected Christianity and Jesus, but he was loyal to his faith up until his final breath. I respected that about him and seldom tried to convince him otherwise. Most Christians choose to live by example, not through coercion. Jesus saved a close family member from a downward spiral. He saved me from life in the fast lane as a socialite and serial dater. When my father would sometimes ask why I was so passionate about my faith, I would remind Him of what Jesus did for me. Following Christ worked for me, and the proof was in the fruit of my life. My dad always remained respectfully silent when I answered. While it saddened him that his daughter didn’t follow his faith, I think was he grateful to God for giving me purpose and direction.
When he was placed on life support after his stroke, my siblings and I were faced with the difficult but necessary decision. The night before we pulled the plug, my sister and I sat at his bedside, held his hands, and enjoyed one final conversation. It reminded me of when we were kids in Baltimore on the weekends, at bedtime, when my dad would put a chair in between our beds and rub our heads as we fell asleep. He’d tell us stories about Muslim kings who spared the lives of innocent animals and about how much God loved us.
Shortly before my father was removed from life support, we asked him whether he could see or sense Jesus around him. He gently squeezed our hands in agreement, and it felt like he understood. We asked him to let go of past mistakes, of everything he knew or thought he knew, and just take Jesus’ hand. Seconds later, my sister had a vision of our father sailing away in a boat toward Heaven, smiling ear-to-ear and waving back at us. It was surreal. For as many gifts as my father gave us in life, maybe God enabled us to give back—by working through us to give our father salvation. I will never forget that powerful moment when my dad received life on his deathbed.
After he died, I felt every emotion under the sun as I gave myself permission to grieve. Over four years later, I still grieve, but it’s nice to no longer feel consumed by the sadness. I prayed to receive signs and messages from my dad after he passed—frustratingly, I never received anything. However, three years after his passing, a hawk started appearing at interesting intervals. I often sit outside to meditate, pray, and talk to God. Sometimes the hawk flies overhead or lands on a nearby tree limb as I think about my father. I feed him and his mate, who sometimes accompanies him during the worst of winter when it is hard to find food. Henry swoops down for his raw salmon within seconds after I lay it on the perch.
I love to watch him in his brilliance and beauty. Sometimes he positions himself behind the leaves for camouflage. He reminds me of my dad, the ultimate guardian and protector who never let us out of his sight on those weekends in West Baltimore. When my older cousins would take us to the park, he would follow and park his car behind the bushes so that we couldn’t see him. But he watched us like a hawk.
He’s still watching me. God uses Henry to show me that my dad is still with me, still looking out for me, and still waiting for his fresh fish. My dad always loved free food.
