Daddy's cell phone was his favorite toy. Daddy LOVED his cell phone. His ring tone was "Remind Me, Dear Lord," written by Dottie Rambo and sung by The Sensational Nightingales. When the phone would ring, he’d sometimes sing along, forgetting that someone was on the other end waiting for him to answer.
“Those things that I love, I hold dear to my heart,
Are just borrowed they're not mine not at all.
Jesus only lets me use them to brighten my life.
So remind me, remind me dear Lord.”
Shortly after daddy passed away, I looked through his phone and found so many pictures and videos he had taken. There were selfies of half his face and videos of himself. He took footage that allowed me to peep into his everyday life. There were weirdly angled snapshots of mama, the love of his life. A spoon and his coffee cup taken while he was sitting at his breakfast table, the spot where he began each day. Pictures of his feet and legs that had once held him strong but were quickly growing weaker, and his walker that allowed him to be mobile, perhaps too mobile as far as his family was concerned. There was a video of Garfield Street, the place where he built a house and a home for his wife and seven children, the gathering spot with a revolving door for family and friends. A picture of his legs wrapped in his favorite blanket while at Davita, the dialysis center where he had treatment three days a week for almost 20 years. His bedroom, where he spent many days recuperating after dialysis. A blurry shot of the backyard where he once kept his garden after he retired from construction. It would be narrow minded for me to think that these pictures were accidental or random. To me none of the footage was random, none of it was accidental.
"Lord, roll back the curtain of mem'ries now and then..."
If he had your number, you were guaranteed weekly phone calls or a phone message if you didn't pick up. When I would miss a call from daddy, I never bothered to listen to them - they were all the same. He would leave one of four voice messages:
"Dis ya daddy."
"Call ya daddy."
"Daddy."
Or he'd forget to hang up, and I'd receive a ten-minute voicemail filled with sounds and noises like the television in the background, him sneezing, a car driving by, daddy singing his favorite church hymns, an occasional sign followed by an "Oh, yes Lawd", or him yelling for my mom.
One day, a couple of weeks after daddy's funeral, I was sitting in my room crying and missing him terribly. I felt the need to hear his voice, so I immediately grabbed my phone to listen to a few of the many messages I never bothered to delete. As I clicked through my mailbox to listen to his routine messages; it was sweet to at least hear his voice. Then there it was. A new message sitting there waiting to comfort me at that moment. A message that was more precious than any he had ever left:
"Dis is ya daddy. I just wanna thank you for being my daughter. Love you. Bye."
God bless technology.
“Just remember I'm a human, and humans forget.
So Remind me, remind dear Lord.”
May we understand that nothing is random, nothing is wasted. May we be reminded that we are only here for a moment and should be grateful for the many blessings that fill our lives. May our most precious memories be kept as treasures within us. In time of loss, may we apply the memories of our loved ones as ointment to our wounded hearts. May we constantly be in awe of our family and friends, searching for what makes them special and dear, and then making those things their identities instead of their flaws and shortcomings. May we treat what we deem as ordinary as extraordinary.
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