denny-1's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- nevaeh I woke up last night with a budda hovering over my bed. I thought to myself, am I all right? Am I dreaming?...but I wasn't, I was awake, and I was staring a 3 foot, fat, bald guy in the stomach. He was floating over my midsection glowing in a faint yellow/orange color, as if he were made of dull brass. He held his chubby hands over his head and smiled. There was a cloth wrapped around his privates. He wore nothing else. I closed my eyes and re-opened them to see if he would disappear and he didn't. He just kept looking at me. I wasn't frighten...I was rather amused. I know why he was there...he was there to tell me to stop poking fun at his temple in the hair salon. Heaven works in funny ways.
I laughed at my father's wake....not because he was dead...I was devastated...but he made me laugh. He was there cracking me up, and in between the tears of pain I giggled with laughter and thought, "you sick bastard."... I'm convinced that soul's are around us all of the time. Watching, waiting and popping up when we need them....this was one of those times. I remember feeling like I would never make it through this...this was my Daddy. The best Daddy in the entire world. I loved him with every ounce of my soul, and what I found that day was so did everyone that he touched. Hundreds of people came to pay their respects...I have never felt so proud of him in my whole life. As he laid lifeless in the casket in his only suit (a green jacket and cream shirt, navy blue pants and a co-coordinated tie that I had picked out for him the day before), I had thought to myself...give me a sign daddy, let me know you are here with me...and he did... My father was not a religious man. He made his first communion as a boy and attended weddings and funerals during his life, but never attended mass for the shear sake of saving his soul. But because tradition dictates sometimes how things like this should be, we had a priest come to the wake to say a few words...just a few words... The priest came at the height of the wake...when everyone ends up coming, just after work, not when it starts and not when it ends...right in the middle of it all...I had never seen a priest like this in my 10 years of Catholic schooling. He was Indian. Not American Indian, but convenient store Indian. (I'm not prejudice, and this is not a dig on Indians...but... it is like a Jew who turns into a Muslim...get my drift...) The Indian priest had a thick accent and to compensate for his short stature he stood on the kneeler in front of where my father was laid out. This in itself was funny. As he began to speak the crowd bowed their heads and clasped their hands. He said a prayer, and began reading excerpts from the bible...He started with calling my father by he name...then...after about 5 minutes of prayer, he began calling my father by his last name...a common practice in the Indian culture...this went on for about 15 more minutes...I could hear my father's voice, "get this fucking guy out of here." (my father was a guys guy and used the 'fuck' word as a regular part of his vocabulary)...by the end of the 'service' my eyes began welling up in disguised tears...I turned to my Grams and she said, "he's not giving the mass is he?"...all I could do was giggle inside...my daddy was with me... Heaven works in funny ways... 5:37 p.m. - 2003-10-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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