Vienna
Another Story From the Jukebox
The last real conversation I had with my father took place in the living room of the house where I grew up, in western North Carolina. He was sitting in his chair—the faux leather recliner he’d owned forever, the one that leaned a little to the right but never quite gave out. Late-afternoon light came through the windows at an angle that made everything look softer than it was at high noon. The radio was on low, playing gospel music the way it always had. He loved those songs. Had loved them my whole life. They filled the room, and asked nothing of me.
I was at the dining room table, eating the slice of apple pie my mother had left out for me. I was about fifty. Old enough to know better. Young enough to still think effort counted for more than it does.
It was just the two of us. My father was in his nineties by then—frail in the body, sharp everywhere else. Two weeks later, he would be gone, though neither of us knew that yet. At the time it felt like an ordinary visit. I was headed back to Atlanta soon. There was always somewhere to get to.
I was talking about work. How busy things were. Flights. Deadlines. The week ahead. I mentioned that I was missing one of the kids’ ballgames because I had to fly to Chicago. I said it the way people say these things—half complaint, half justification. As if being busy might someday stand in for being present.
My father listened without interrupting. He had fathered seven children. Two had died in infancy. Five of us were still standing. He had spent most of his life in a hurry because five children require it.
He didn’t look at me when he spoke. Just kept his eyes forward, hands resting where they always did.
“You know, son,” he said, “the world won’t reward you for effort. But God will reward you for living in love.”
That was it. No follow-up. No emphasis. No soft landing. The radio kept playing. I kept eating pie. We talked about something else.
I drove back toward Atlanta an hour or so later, carrying the sentence with me without really carrying it at all.
It didn’t land until I hit the Georgia state line on I-85.
There’s a stretch there near the lake where the road opens up and the water shows itself just long enough to interrupt whatever argument you’re having in your head. Something about that light, that stillness. The sentence came back. Rang like a bell. Stripped of context. Unavoidable.
“The world won’t reward you for effort.”
I had been very busy being rewarded for effort. Applause, promotions, movement. Miles logged. Calendars full. None of it had ever once promised to love me back.
“But God will reward you for living in love.”
I kept driving.
By the time I reached Atlanta, the sentence had settled into place.
He had already run the race.
He was simply telling me what was worth slowing down for.
Writers - this is a weekly writer’s exercise. Write a piece of no more than 1500 words, any style, in response to a song prompt. It’s a great way to stretch your style muscles. Join in!
Wise, wise words.
A beautiful moment. Thank you.