Joshua and Maurine (and me)

 My first memory of my father is him coming into the bedroom my sister and I shared when we were little to tell us goodnight.  I would “hide” under the blanket and he would act like he couldn’t find me.  He would say, “Well, I guess I’ll go.”  That was my cue to throw the covers off and scream, “Here I am!”  My father would hug me and I would beg him to tuck me in tight before he left.  The blankets held me down making his hug continue until I fell asleep.

My next earliest memory is of Joshua sitting in his recliner.  I don’t know when the Lazy Boy was invented, but I believe it was built around my Da, it was HIS chair.  The entire family knew when Joshua came into the room, whoever was in “his” chair would immediately vacate or the instruction would be given, “Get out of my chair.” (This is probably a universal dad thing, but since he was the only dad I knew, to me it was his thing.)

After my bath,  I would come into the room, towel over my head and Daddy would sit up in his chair and I would move in front of him so he could dry my hair.  He was so rough and yet so gentle, as I was tenderly tossed from side to side.  I loved it.  Sometimes I would just go and get my hair wet, as an excuse for him to rattle my head beneath the towel.

One last early childhood memory of mine comes from times at church listening to Joshua preach.  His voice was deep and thunderous as he passionately preached the gospel.  It was just as deep and thunderous when I heard from the pulpit, “David, go sit with your mother.”  Busted.

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My memories of my mom go further back, but seem less specific.  I remember the softness of my mother’s voice, her eyes, her smile, the touch of her hand.  I remember her playing the organ or piano and singing.  I remember watching her conduct the choir.  I remember my mom being my mom.

Maurine, like her mother before her, was not effusive in her affection, but I was very effusive in mine, and my mother was the recipient of every expression my little heart could imagine.  She would pick me up and hold me as long as she was able, she would hug me back, hold my hand, accept my messy-faced kisses.  She was love to me.  

One memory I have of her was on a roadtrip to Texas.  My sister and I would started in the backseat, but at some point on this trip, my mother and Debby traded places and Mom sat in the back with me.  I remember her growling like a bear and biting my leg with her fingers again and again while I screamed with delight.  Everytime she would stop, I would beg for more and she would say, “No, that’s enough,” right before running her hand up my leg again.  The two of us laughed to the point of tears.  

I remember sitting on my mother’s lap while the family watched TV.  I would lean against her and feel her stroke my back while she hummed in my ear.  I longed for those moments, that closeness with her.  In those moments, it seemed to be just she and I and no one else.

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One more memory about both my parents.  My parents had a king-sized bed.  When I was little, that bed was like a football field to me.  I would jump on it, play under it, behind it.  I loved being in their bedroom on that bed.  At night, Joshua and Maurine would kneel on either side of the bed and pray aloud together.  I would crawl up on the bed, lying against my mother’s arms, watching her mouth as she prayed above me.  Then I would roll the half-mile to my father’s side of the bed and watch his mouth as he prayed.  Back and forth I would go as they asked God for blessings and provision and healing.

After what seemed like hours, they would start the Lord’s Prayer together and I knew that playtime was coming to an end for me.  My father would always begin the prayer, but in his broken-English Chinese accent his words to me were, “Our Fadder, who-ha in heaven.”  Even to this day, the memory of his voice in that moment draws me closer to God.