The Miracle of "Firsts"

The year was 1965. My father was in the garden one afternoon, picking green beans when I arrived home from the school bus stop. He waved at me as I came into the yard and hollered, "Hey, son! How was school?"

I shuffled over to him, looking dejected. "Not so good, dad. The guys are all braggin' about being the first to get a girl, or a car or something. I don't have anything I'm 'first' at."

He looked at me with an almost-anxious gleam in his eye, then down at the beans he had in his old straw basket. He picked one out, brushed it off and said,

"Look, son. Watch what I'm about to do." Then, with his eyes shut, he held it the bean in front of me and snapped it in half. Perhaps, when he opened his eyes, my quizzical expression amused him, because he chuckled, "Now, do you see the 'goody' in this bean? Son, you're the first person on this earth to ever see the inside of it. I even kept my eyes closed so you would see it first!" As I took that in, he continued, "Nobody but you, son. You're the 'first' - ever!"

To me, it was corny, and I didn't think much of it until some years later. Then, in late June of 1979, I came in the front door with a smile on my face a mile wide. Married slightly less than a year, my wife had just given birth to my first son a day before! Daddy was sitting in the den as I went to tell him the news.

"Congratulations, son!" he beamed. Then he added, "Tell me: Were you there to watch the youngster being born?" I couldn't wait to tell him I was. He continued, "Well, remember when we were out yonder in the garden, and you were the first one to see that bean I snapped?"

Suddenly, the memory came back to me. "Well, outside the doctor and maybe the nurse, you're the first person on this earth to ever see that baby of yours! Not your wife, your mama or anybody else! Nobody else but you, son ..."

When I left their house to go home, I felt tower-tall. Two years later, he repeated that same story when my second son was born. I mean, here I was—finally—scoring "firsts"! It was a great feeling.

Then, in mid-August, 1990, I received a call at work from my older son. He told me that daddy had been taken to the hospital with terminal cancer. He wasn't expected to live more than a couple of months. I knew my sister was there, watching him and his brother while I was working, and she had given Tim daddy's room number so I could call him.

When the hospital connected me, I was surprised to hear a rather happy voice. After tearfully telling him how sorry I was, and that I loved him, I asked how he was doing. His reply will live with me forever.

"Son, remember when we were in the garden that time, and when your boys were born, and how you were the first to see the things we talked about?" How well I remembered! "Well, the doctors tell me I don't have long to live; but don't be sad about it! Just think: Like you, I'm going to see something that nobody else living right now on Earth has seen! We all talk about Jesus, but, son, I'm gonna get to SEE Him in person! Nobody we know today has done that!"

After a little more talk, I slowly hung up the phone and, in a daze, just walked on out the door and went home. At that time, my family and I lived next door to mama and daddy's, about four blocks from the store. Deep in thought and with my eyes full of tears, I thanked my sister for watching my sons and, after she left, felt compelled to share daddy's stories with then.

Two weeks later, my father died. As I looked down at what had been his mortal coil, I couldn't help smiling, as I remembered what he'd said and the lessons I'd learned from him: that Life is full of firsts, even at the last, if we just open our eyes to the beauty of what it has to offer.