The following is not about my Daddy. He died when I was five. Yet, he has everything to do with my writing it. Years of fondling the precious few memories I have of him and fantasizing about the kind of man he would have been had he lived, or the kind I hope he would have been, inspired it.


My Daddy used to work all day
Down at the logging mill,
And even though he's gone away,
My mind can see him still.

He always sang some cheerful song
As he walked home each night,
And we would hear him singing long
Before he came in sight.

We'd race to meet him, Bub and I,
And like each time before,
He'd lift us to his shoulders high
And ride us to the door.

That Mother was the apple of
His eye no one could doubt;
His smile betrayed his depth of love
Each time she was about.

Although he sorely lacked his share
Of goods of which to boast,
He was more than a millionaire
In things that count the most.

Each night he'd read to us God's word
Then thank Him for our food;
No better sermon have I heard
On how to show God gratitude.

You'd think that we were far from poor,
In hearing words he prayed,
That all of Heaven's wealth and more
Before us God had laid.

He always measured mankind's wealth
Not in what rusts away,
Nor in our looks, or creeds, or health,
For man is but of clay.



He measured it in the pleasures found
In what God's hands have made,
Which in this universe abound
And for man were arrayed.

He measured it in relationships
Of friends and family
And in the Gift none can eclipse:
God's Son on Calvary .

No one who came to him in need
He ever turned away;
But you'd never know of his deed
From anything he'd say.

Sometimes at night I'd pass his door
And see the silhouette
Of him with knees upon the floor,
A scene I'll not forget.

Id hear him say Bub's name and mine
And Mom's in whispered tone, 
Asking for us blessings divine,
But never for his own.

Sometimes I'd hear him cry aloud
For some poor sinner's soul;
He never was a man too proud
To let his teardrops roll.

The years have flown since childhood days
And hes no longer here;
But every day in countless ways
I ever feel him near.

He wrote his character on me,
Like words upon a scroll,
And left his mark indelibly,
Upon my very soul.

 2007 J. G. Braddock Sr.

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J. G. Braddock Sr.
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By Inspiration Only