Here’s Kimberly Williamson’s beautiful tribute to her father, James Madden, in honor of the five-year anniversary of his death:

When I was a young girl, my father repaired a hole in our driveway and just as the concrete set, he etched in large letters, God is Love. I grew up in a Christian home, though many in my hometown would have disputed this, being my parents did not regularly attend church services. In the seventies, in south Alabama, it was considered uncouth to miss church and to this very day, when I mention the spirituality of my childhood, I see skeptical looks cross the faces of certain friends whose families were in various churches every time the doors opened. Evidently, they never saw our driveway.

Daddy was one of seven brothers raised by a religious zealot. He escaped the brutal beatings and harsh legalism of his father by enlisting in the US Army as a paratrooper. Until his death, nearly five years ago, he regarded religious extremism and hypocrisy with disdain while gentler persuasion won his respect. He chose to worship Jesus through the majesty of mystery and unanswerable questions versus the hostile business of being right.

At home, prayer was encouraged but more as a private endeavor. The most unforgettable recollection I have of Hurricane Opal bearing down on our little city is of Daddy, standing at the back door, peering out into the dark, beseeching the Lord to have mercy on us; it is one of the few memories I have of him praying aloud.

Though his search for a house of worship where he felt comfortable was unsuccessful, my attendance in church was encouraged, although never demanded, and he stood proudly at my baptism. Daddy’s unstructured thoughts and his belief that no man knew everything about God balanced the rigid composition of my childhood church but I admit the equilibrium did not occur until I was well into my thirties.

A near death experience fulfilled the words he had written in stone thirty years prior. Daddy marveled at things he had seen on the other side and when he received a terminal cancer diagnosis two years later, he seemed almost relieved; convinced his quest for a loving God was nearing its end.

As the morphine blurred his last days, he spoke of another note, just for Mother and me, written years before in the concrete foundation of her clothesline; but we have never conducted a search for it. No doubt, we both fear the powerful painkiller promised a message without subsistence, but today, on what would have been his seventieth birthday, the temptation to prove its existence might be irresistible. Or perhaps, I will be content to stand at the end of the inscribed driveway and cast my eyes heavenward, with hope that somehow he will feel the love I send. The elements have taken a toll on my father’s handiwork and some of the letters are now difficult to discern, but God is Love remains in my heart where it is sustained by faith that was nurtured by many, but none so compellingly, as Daddy.

Tagged as: love, One True Thing

Share this Post

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
•