By the time I was ten, I was totally ashamed of my father. All my friends called him names: Quasi-Moto, hunchback, monster, Little Frankenstein, the crooked little man with the crooked little cane. At first it hurt when they called him those things, but soon I found myself agreeing with them. He was ugly, and I knew it!

My father was born with something called parastremmaric dwarfism. The disease made him stop growing when he was about thirteen and caused his body to twist and turn into a grotesque shape. Soon after my birth, things started getting worse. Another genetic disorder took over, and his left foot started turning out, almost backward. His head and neck shifted over to the right; his neck became rigid and he had to look over his left shoulder a bit. His spine twisted like an old roller coaster. His walk became slow, awkward, and deliberate. He had to almost drag his left foot as he used his deformed right arm to balance his gait.

I hated to be seen with him. Everyone stared. They seemed to pity father. I didn’t have the right boyfriends because of him. I wasn’t pretty enough because of him. I wasn’t happy because of him. Anything that was wrong with me, or my life, was because of him. If my father had been good-looking like Jane’s father, or successful like Terry’s father… I would be perfect I knew that for sure.

The night of my senior prom came, and Father had to place one more nail in my coffin, he had volunteered to be one of my chaperones at the dance. My heart just sank when he told me; I stormed into my room, slammed the door, threw myself on the bed and cried.

I got dressed, my date picked me up, and we went to the prom. Father followed behind us driven by mother. When we arrived, Father seemed to vanish into the pink chiffon drapes that hung everywhere in the auditorium. I thanked God that he had heard my prayer. At least I could have some fun. Midway through, out from no where he appeared and started to invite all my girlfriends to dance. One by one, he took their hand and led them to the dance floor. He then clumsily moved them in circle as the band played. Now I tried to vanish into the drapes. It was embarrassing.

After Jane had danced with him, she headed my way. Oh no! I thought. She’s going to tell me he stomped on her feet or something. “Grace,” she called, “you have the greatest father.” My face fell. “What?” She smiled at me and grabbed my shoulders. “Your father’s the best. He’s funny, kind, and always finds the time to be there when you need him. I wish my father was more like that. A few minutes later, Paul came to stand beside me. “He’s sure having a lot of fun.” “What? Who? Who is having a lot of fun?” I asked. “Your father; He’s having a ball.” “Yeah. I guess.” I didn’t know what else to say.

My boyfriend Terry came back with two glasses of punch and handed one to me. “So, what do you think of my father?” I asked out of the blue. “I like him, I always have.” Terry didn’t have to think about the answer. “Then why did you call him names when we were kids?” “I don’t know, because he was different, and I was a dumb kid.” “When did you stop calling him names?” I asked, trying to search my own memory. “I was hurt inside when my mother and father’s divorce. No one else would let me talk about it. Your dad saw the pain inside me, he sat with me and I cried like a baby in his arms. I wish my father is like that.”

Now my memory flashed back, my father was always there when I needed him. All these years I was ashamed of him and trying to alienate him, he just kept quiet. He put up with me no matter how nasty I became or how high my hormones raged. I was always his little princess. As I looked at my father dancing gaily with my friends, a big toothy grin on his face, I suddenly saw him differently. The handicaps weren’t his, it was mine! I have spent a great deal of my life hating the man who loved me. I have hated the exterior that I saw, and I had ignored the interior that contained his God –given heart.

On graduation day, my name was called, and I stood behind the podium, as I looked over the people in the audience, my gaze rested on my father in the front row sitting next to my mother. He sat there, in his own and only, specially made suit, holding my mother’s hand and smiling. Overcome with emotion, my prepared speech was to become landmark in my life.

“Today I stand here as an honour student, able to graduate with 4.0 average. Yes, I was in the honour society for 3 years, yes I was elected class president. I lead the school to championship in the debate club, and yes, I even won a full scholarship to

I looked down at my father and at the look of complete shock that covered his face. I stepped out from behind the podium and motioned for my father to join me onstage. He made his way slowly, awkwardly and deliberately. He had to drag his left foot up the stairs. As he stood next to me at the podium, I took his small, crippled hand in mine and held it tight.

“Father, I owe you a big apology. I based my love for you on what I saw and not what I felt. I forgot to look at the one part of you that meant the most, the big, big heart God gave you. As I move out of high school and into life. I want you to know I could not have had a better father. You were always there for me, and no matter how badly I hurt you, you still showed up. When I was eight, I just couldn’t do maths. You sat down with me night after night, and we worked on maths problems until maths became easy for me. Thank you.”

By Candace Carteen

Footnote: By Chris Chin

Often we take God’s love for us for granted. At times we distance ourselves from him; few even ashame to be associated with him; and yet he never left us nor abandon us.
His fatherly love for us is pure, understanding, patience, unconditional and sincere.

1John4:16: And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him