When I was a boy, if I had something to be up for in the morning – be it school or a special event – my Dad would appear by my bed early in the morning. Very quietly, almost silently, he would whisper my name, “John,” just that, and I would awake right away. I have many memories of mornings exactly like that.
This morning I set an alarm a bit later than usual. Two minutes before the alarm would’ve chimed, more clear than a bell, just by the bed, I heard my father’s voice. “John,” he said, as on those mornings long ago.
I’ve not heard his voice, of course, since his death in August of 2000. But there it was. Unmistakable. And calling me to wake up.
To what, I wonder?