Imperfect Pitch

Father's Day. A day in which we celebrate fathers for the extraordinary roles they play in raising children, and leading their families in a way they feel is proper. And while I reminisce on all my father taught me, and remember everything I can remember about him he did so well, it's the struggles he had that he overcame or battled against that stick out.

He overcame drinking.

He overcame anger.

He overcame a stroke in his brain.

He overcame...a bad voice?!?

Now we lived on the church property because he was the church janitor. Out of everything he lost the ability to do, including having a decent memory and ability to speak totally correct, God mercifully allowed him to heal, keep his talent for music, and for some reason, the "Good Lord" allowed him to remember how to clean. Thanks God. Really? You could just say our house would have been suitable for Mr. Clean himself. But my father would never complain about the few gifts God left him with. Never.

I can remember one afternoon, after coming home from school, I was looking for him. Of course, I knew I could look in the church, and listen for a vacuum, or the bottle of Windex being sprayed. But there was nothing. Gym? No one. Restrooms? Nothing. I looked in the 500 seat sanctuary. Didn't see anyo--- wait. There, on the corner of the platform. The vacuum was in it's upright position. And there, with one green plush chair pulled facing away from the seats, was my father with one of his acoustic guitars. Now, as I reached for the handle to go in to just let him know I was home, I slowed, and lightly turned the knob to open it. As I did, I could hear the guitar lightly playing. Walking closer row by row, I began hearing a soft voice. He was...singing. Faintly. The closer I got, the better I could hear. Not really on pitch, and as I inched closer, not really any words. It was mostly mumbles and hums. But, it was one time I felt a spirit and a move so different, so peaceful, so, natural. With all he could remember, he hummed, and played a few chords. Mumbled words to me, but I KNEW they meant something. I sat for a few more minutes, and then left him to sing this imperfect song perfectly to someone he could NEVER forget.

I will always remember that moment. Knowing that my father, as strong as he was, with the few talents God left him with, used the one talent which may have been his weakest, to serenade his father in heaven for a few moments. He struggled to stay in tune. He battled his human instincts which were probably telling him this didn't sound good at all, to push through and reach a dimension where God looks past talent, and sees a pure offering of thanks.

Happy Fathers day Eddie Berto Alvarez who now rests and waits for his reward. Until I see you again, I thank you for reminding me my imperfections lead me closer to my heavenly father.