If the Good Lord's Willing

"I don't reckon she belongs in here," said the principal, leaning back in his chair with a creak that echoed like a falling tree, eyes pinched narrow like he was sizing up a snake.

Daddy didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, resting one work-worn hand on the desk and staring straight through the man. "You reckon wrong, then. You’re tellin’ me she don’t belong ‘fore she’s had a chance to prove herself? Well, reckon again."

There was a long pause, heavy as a thundercloud about to burst, before the principal gave a grumbling nod. Daddy tipped his hat and walked out, not waiting for a thank-you, because it wasn’t one of those moments.

That’s my daddy—quieter than a whisper in church but louder than the crack of dawn when he’s got a point to make. He doesn't fight often, but when he does, you’d better step aside or get run over.

He taught us to respect people but never worship them, no matter their title. "A title don’t make a man righteous," he’d say, his voice like gravel tumbling over water. "It’s what he does when no one’s lookin’ that tells you if he’s worth a lick."

Daddy's the kind of man who works from sunup to sundown, calluses thick on his hands and wisdom thicker in his words. He prays in silence, lips barely moving, but when he talks to God, it’s more like a debate than a request. And when God doesn’t answer, he just shrugs and says, "Reckon I’ll figure it out myself, then."

But God does answer him—sometimes not in the way he expects. Like the time the barn caught fire, and he stood in the field afterward, staring at the blackened timbers. "What now, Lord?" he muttered, kicking a half-burnt beam. That night, it rained hard enough to fill the cisterns to bursting, and he rebuilt the barn better than before.

He passed that stubborn faith down to us, whether we wanted it or not. Daddy didn’t just teach lessons; he lived them. Like the time I came home crying because someone said I wasn’t smart enough for college. He looked me square in the eye and said, "You believe ‘em? Or you believe what you’ve worked for? Pick one, and don’t look back."

When he got old, we thought maybe he’d settle down, let the world be what it was. But that’s not Daddy. He kept tinkering, fixing, and arguing with God up until the very end.

And when he passed, the preacher said something about meeting the Lord with open arms. I almost laughed, because I could see Daddy walking up to those gates, not with open arms, but with a raised eyebrow. "Well," he’d say, "Let’s see if heaven’s got a roof worth its salt."

And God, I reckon, just smiled and said, "Come on in, son. I’ve been waiting."