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He is my father as I am his son.
It was on the New Year’s Eve when every family enjoyed the primordial human joys and the god-sent bliss that I almost lost the person whom I loved so much deep inside though never confessed.
I shall never forget that night—that night when he got sick and fell into coma. I cried， blamed myself and begged God not to take him away from me；I promised Him that I should care for him and love him to his ken instead of pretending to be selfish and indifferent， that I should offer him a cup of tea after meals and help him with his coat when he dresses. God， while you are my Heavenly Father as I am your earthly son， please just let me take the chance to learn the way to love and serve an earthly father when someday should I come to you， I would know better of the father-and-son relationship and make you feel what a son’s love is while now I am imploring you not to bereave me.
God nods.
Later that night I dreamt a strange dream—I am a criminal！
Having committed sins and vices， I am， therefore， latched on the crucifix for a purgatory. Satan is getting closer， inch by inch， a newly-sharpened sickle in hand. So slow he moves that it appears to me the approach is but an endless one. For the first time in my life that fear trembles my soul and I try to struggle for a let-go just like a duck， whose neck and wings have been twisted and tangled together， makes the last attempt to tow its life back.
I feel the sickle pinning into my chest and then it makes a twinge. Satan’s wrinkled hand dots into me and moves like an electronic mixer. It is too much for me to cry over the pain；the only thing that reminds me of my vague consciousness is the sight of my heart’s bleeding in his hand.
When I strive to gather the dying senses at my last gasp， a beam of light lights up， light so sacred I could but feel warm and safe. Jesus shows up， holds me in his arms， puts his strong hand on my chest， and I could feel my own heartbeat again. On His touching my back， a stream of warmness oozes up and up and two wings， white and soft， spread.
“My son， ” He speaks fatherly， “you are my angel now.”
I woke up the next morning， content and fresh， with reflections on my mind.
Some people take the father-and-son relationship for granted， some neglect it；there are some who even abandon it， and still some who are afraid to feel and face it. In a life smooth or tough are there people who back us up and see us through. The one who can not be taken never learns to give. Admit or not， life is blank without family and friends and their love for you. For me， the coward and the fool who have the least humble capability to employ any words to tell father of my love for him， who have been too proud to confess my weakness to anyone else， father is the Night that endows me with dark eyes with which I search for light.
It must have been cold in my shadow， for there sunlight never reaches his faces；he is content to let me fly， and fly a little bit higher as I do， it is getting colder in the shadow. In the sky he sets up， I find my world as well as my goal；as I take everything for granted， he looks for a smile to hide the pain—pain generated from my indifference and pride. But I should have known that when the storm comes， it is father who guides me along home， not that the humble wings of my own. He is the wind beneath my wings that enables me to fly higher than an eagle.
At this very moment I come to realize that the greatest thing is to love and to beloved in return， and I know my troubles and temptations of my life are just beginning， and may be many；but I’m confident enough to overcome and outlive them all because I’ve learnt to feel the strength and tenderness of my father as I do that of the Heavenly one. His love and care never tire or change， can never be taken away from me but may become the source of lifelong peace， happiness and strength. Through the feast or famine， father is all the way with me. He never loses patience or doubts or complains， but always hopes and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed to do otherwise. I learn from him that I must try to self-help and practice the virtues and goodness that I would someday have my own son possess.
People miss and cry over something that they’ve never shown a bit of concern before once they lost it. It is lucky for someone， especially for me， to get to know it before it is too late. Yet， luck is not always by our side and few of us can have the chance to go that extra mile for life.
I fly and fly high again in the sky opened up by my father， so high that I almost touch the sky. Thank you， God， for him， the wind beneath my wings. He is no Julius Caesar nor is he Demosthenes， but he is my father.
We all will someday be father of our own children， and if there is the Next Life in Buddhism， I would like to be the father of father—the wind beneath his wings.
It was on the New Year’s Eve when every family enjoyed the primordial human joys and the god-sent bliss that I almost lost the person whom I loved so much deep inside though never confessed.
I shall never forget that night—that night when he got sick and fell into coma. I cried， blamed myself and begged God not to take him away from me；I promised Him that I should care for him and love him to his ken instead of pretending to be selfish and indifferent， that I should offer him a cup of tea after meals and help him with his coat when he dresses. God， while you are my Heavenly Father as I am your earthly son， please just let me take the chance to learn the way to love and serve an earthly father when someday should I come to you， I would know better of the father-and-son relationship and make you feel what a son’s love is while now I am imploring you not to bereave me.
God nods.
Later that night I dreamt a strange dream—I am a criminal！
Having committed sins and vices， I am， therefore， latched on the crucifix for a purgatory. Satan is getting closer， inch by inch， a newly-sharpened sickle in hand. So slow he moves that it appears to me the approach is but an endless one. For the first time in my life that fear trembles my soul and I try to struggle for a let-go just like a duck， whose neck and wings have been twisted and tangled together， makes the last attempt to tow its life back.
I feel the sickle pinning into my chest and then it makes a twinge. Satan’s wrinkled hand dots into me and moves like an electronic mixer. It is too much for me to cry over the pain；the only thing that reminds me of my vague consciousness is the sight of my heart’s bleeding in his hand.
When I strive to gather the dying senses at my last gasp， a beam of light lights up， light so sacred I could but feel warm and safe. Jesus shows up， holds me in his arms， puts his strong hand on my chest， and I could feel my own heartbeat again. On His touching my back， a stream of warmness oozes up and up and two wings， white and soft， spread.
“My son， ” He speaks fatherly， “you are my angel now.”
I woke up the next morning， content and fresh， with reflections on my mind.
Some people take the father-and-son relationship for granted， some neglect it；there are some who even abandon it， and still some who are afraid to feel and face it. In a life smooth or tough are there people who back us up and see us through. The one who can not be taken never learns to give. Admit or not， life is blank without family and friends and their love for you. For me， the coward and the fool who have the least humble capability to employ any words to tell father of my love for him， who have been too proud to confess my weakness to anyone else， father is the Night that endows me with dark eyes with which I search for light.
It must have been cold in my shadow， for there sunlight never reaches his faces；he is content to let me fly， and fly a little bit higher as I do， it is getting colder in the shadow. In the sky he sets up， I find my world as well as my goal；as I take everything for granted， he looks for a smile to hide the pain—pain generated from my indifference and pride. But I should have known that when the storm comes， it is father who guides me along home， not that the humble wings of my own. He is the wind beneath my wings that enables me to fly higher than an eagle.
At this very moment I come to realize that the greatest thing is to love and to beloved in return， and I know my troubles and temptations of my life are just beginning， and may be many；but I’m confident enough to overcome and outlive them all because I’ve learnt to feel the strength and tenderness of my father as I do that of the Heavenly one. His love and care never tire or change， can never be taken away from me but may become the source of lifelong peace， happiness and strength. Through the feast or famine， father is all the way with me. He never loses patience or doubts or complains， but always hopes and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed to do otherwise. I learn from him that I must try to self-help and practice the virtues and goodness that I would someday have my own son possess.
People miss and cry over something that they’ve never shown a bit of concern before once they lost it. It is lucky for someone， especially for me， to get to know it before it is too late. Yet， luck is not always by our side and few of us can have the chance to go that extra mile for life.
I fly and fly high again in the sky opened up by my father， so high that I almost touch the sky. Thank you， God， for him， the wind beneath my wings. He is no Julius Caesar nor is he Demosthenes， but he is my father.
We all will someday be father of our own children， and if there is the Next Life in Buddhism， I would like to be the father of father—the wind beneath his wings.