Armor
I have a poignant memory of my father that fills me with a sweet sadness. It rose up over the weekend, amid other discussions, and I thought it would share it with you.
In the last weeks of his life my father was weakened but still vital. I was a cop at the time. One morning myself and several other officers had gathered at my parents ranch to plan a raid. My father, a former policeman himself, had hosted us with black coffee. Many of my fellow officers also knew my father personally.
We finished our planning and set about preparing for the raid. I had put on my raid vest (my ballistic kevlar vest) and was strapping on the assorted gear that marked my trade. My father helped me by adjusting the vest, putting in the splash plates front and back, making sure they were strapped in and set correctly.
I remember his hand adjusting the straps, tugging them tight, making sure the vest fit right. As a last action he adjusted the collar and then patted me on the back as we moved out.
I know that, on that day, in the last weeks of his life, he was fitting me with two forms of armor. One of temporal - kevlar and ceramic and steel. The other was sacred. As certainly as he settled me in my armor, he armored me with his love. The first armor I have not worn in years. Hopefully, I never will wear it again. The second armor I have never taken off. I know that when we meet again in the next life I will still wear it - as bright and shining as the day he put it on.
He died of cancer in October of 1984. He was 53 years old.
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