Today was my father’s birthday, and I deliberately didn’t wish him a happy birthday because I was sure we would come home with a gift. The gift didn’t happen. I’ve never been great at getting gifts for my father, and leaving it till the last-minute usually results in a fail.
My Father, is a quiet man, a loud man, a man with a weird–but great–sense of humour. My dad is loving and caring, and I have to take back my words on Facebook where I refered to him as the greatest man of the 21st century. There are many great men, who have achieved more than my dad has, but the truth is, my father is the best man for the calling on his life. No one else can do what he alone was created for.
My father is a flawed human being and like most paintbrushes; he comes with his flaws and he paints Christ. I look at my father and wherever he goes, he paints Christ. Sometimes, he paints Christ with his flaws, showing that no saint is beyond failure, and that for all of us, Christ always covers His own. Most times, he paints Christ in gentle strokes, or hard lines; in his lovely smile, in his grace and love, in his discipline and forgiveness. In his humility that says “sorry”, he is teaching me to own my failures, and in his hard-working hands, he is teaching me to work. He is ever so wise and I have gotten to know my late grandfather ba Zachiluka, through him. He carries a legacy started before him and set beyond.
My father is an imperfect father, painting a perfect one, regardless of what he does or says. He is an imperfect head, leading imperfect people, painting a perfect Head, Christ the Lord. Happy birthday dad, Atate, Tata. So blessed to have you, and may you never cease to paint.