c. 1996 Religion News Service

(Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, of Sudbury, Mass., is the author of nine books. The following commentary, suitable for Father’s Day, is taken from his latest book,”Invisible Lines of Connection: Sacred Stories of the Ordinary,”published by Jewish Lights Publishing of Woodstock, Vt.

(RNS)-My father was, among many things, a sign painter.

I grew up amidst art gum erasers, mat board and paint brushes. So now, every now and then, when I reach out to pick up a roll of masking tape, I bring back more than the tape. Sometimes, just for a moment or two, I cry and remember how he taught me to hold a brush.

He was also the first trainer of the Detroit Lions-back in 1935, when they were world champs. Sunday afternoons, while growing up, I would watch their games with him on television. So, even now, when I hear the sportscaster mention the Detroit Lions, I get sad.

He used to love peaches. They could be in ice cream, or on his cereal, but he especially loved fresh whole peaches. So when I drive by a fruit stand selling peaches, every now and then I imagine that he is with me in the car and how we would pull over and buy a half-dozen. And again my eyes moisten.

I have come to regard these unexpected tears as a natural part of the healing process, even as a precious reminder of my love for him. After several years, I am getting used to it, but I hope it never stops.

I feel sometimes as if all the things that remind me of my father were joined to me by long, thin, taut wires. And when I chance upon these things-the masking tape, the football game, the fresh peaches-one of the wires gets twisted ever so slightly and it pinches out another tear or two I didn’t know I had.

Even more mysterious to me is that every few weeks, I discover yet another wire. There seem to be thousands of them.

When my mother, my brother and I walked down the aisle just behind the rabbis who were following his casket, I cried openly. The young assistant rabbi looked back in concern to make sure I was all right. I managed to joke,”Six years of psychoanalysis, now I can cry whenever I want.” My father lived to be 76. Not a ripe old age, but long enough to make it to two of the three b’nai mitzvah of my kids. Since he succumbed to a heart attack, neither my brother nor I was able to get there in time, as it says in Genesis, to close his eyes.

But we were spared the scene of a hospital room and have memories only of his healthy smile. I suppose I was even fortunate that we had him for eight years after his first big heart attack.

He was my father and he’s dead. And every now and then, sometimes once a day, other times every week or two, but sooner or later, one of the wires gets twisted and I cry a little.

It is a small price to pay for our love. It is almost as if his death has made his life even more precious.

MJP END KUSHNER