He wasn't an old man. Aged sixty-six it seemed to me he had been taken well before his time.

You can probably imagine the frustration, the anger, the unexpected flood of tears that have filled the twelve months since then. And I've come to realise that he wasn't “taken before his time”. If that was when God chose to take him (and surely it was no one else's call) then that was his time.

A lot of my grief was for myself. What would I do without him? More importantly, I had to face up to the fact that, with him gone, I was the patriarch, mine was the final authority on family issues. Scariest of all, I realised that there was now no-one between me and death. His generation was gone and, all being well, mine would be next. Dad wasn't there to save me from the dark any more.

It meant I had to be the grown up.

Terrifying as that was it brought with it another realisation.

All through my life my father had been stepping away from me. Not in a neglectful way, but in a way that kept me moving forward.

When I took my first baby steps, he would have caught me. The next time I tried he held out his hands and, as I moved forward, he took a step back — and I took another step!

In the old, cold, public swimming baths I splashed relentlessly towards the deep end, safe in the knowledge that Dad was right in front, backing away from me as I completed that first length.

He held the seat of my bicycle until he thought I was ready. And then, without me even realising it, he let go and stepped away.

Many times, through the turmoil of the teenage years Dad would survey my latest disaster and go red in the face, then he'd walk away and leave me, ashamed and embarrassed, to fix it or learn from it.

When my own children came along he wasn't slow to tell me how he thought I should raise them. Then he'd shrug and metaphorically back away with the words, “But it's your decision.”

Now, I'm a husband, a father, an uncle and a grandfather. I was all of that before he died. I like to think, in our time together, he'd taught me all he could about being a good man — like him.

From that point on in it was all up to me… so he stepped away.

This story was written by David McLaughlan.

The post Step Away appeared first on Spiritual Growth Events.

Well, we tossed the idea about for a few minutes then the train reached the terminus. Once in Central Station we made our way through the masses of travellers towards the exit. The last thing I expected was to have my question put to the test almost immediately.

My wife tugged at my sleeve.

“Look.” She pointed to a bank of pay phones against the far wall where a hunched, elderly lady was checking every change return slot. Looking at her many layers of ragged clothing and shoes held together with tape my wife commented,

“She's probably wearing everything she owns. And what she isn't wearing is probably in the plastic bag she's carrying.”

I turned against the tide of people and stood for a moment, watching her. Having found no forgotten change this woman, who had to be in her seventies, headed for the newsagent's shop.

She was so small I doubt the sales assistant ever saw her amongst the genuine customers. She picked up a magazine of two and “accidentally” shook out the advertising leaflets and free TV guides. She picked these up off the floor and tucked them into one of her many cardigans. I could only guess they might be insulation to help her through a cold night.

By now I was feeling like something of a voyeur. It was time to move on. I had seen poor people before. On the streets of Glasgow that night I would probably walk past a dozen professional beggars. But I couldn't walk away.

Once again the woman made her way, all but unnoticed, through the crowd. Her next stop was the photo booth, where she pressed the coin return button a few times.

When she came out I was standing in front of her. Now, I'm a fairly big man so I don't blame her for being startled when I said, “Find anything?” But there was something more in her expression. She didn't seem to think I was police, or security, or railway staff, she just seemed totally confused by the fact that someone was paying attention to her.

“Here.” I held out some money.

She smiled, tried for a few seconds to speak but she seemed to have forgotten how. Then she mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

Stunned and scared I stepped back into the crowd. By the time I reached my wife again my tears were flowing freely.

Minutes before I had been questioning other folk's Christianity. Now I had been tested. If Jesus had been in that old lady I might not have recognised him. Si, instead, he sent a messenger, someone I certainly would recognise. In that deeply lined face and those watery blue eyes I had seen my own dearly loved, long departed Granny.

In another life when I still had a child's innocence I had fixed her fence, brought coal for her fire, anything to see Granny smile. And in that face I had seen proof that, decades after her death, by caring for someone else, I had made her happy again.

We were on our way to the theatre, to see Jesus Christ Superstar, but I confess I only saw about half of it the rest was blurred by tears of happiness.

This story was written by David McLaughlan.

The post Tested appeared first on Spiritual Growth Events.