love you lots

My father has a booming singing voice.

When I was younger, I would always cringe or shrink down in the church 

bench because my father sang so loudly. 

He has a thick accent and would sometimes slur the words together. Loudly.

He served as a Spanish Branch President for about 6 years, and from the stand

I could still hear his thunderous voice.

This past Sunday, I got to sit by my father at church.

The organist sweetly played the introduction to the first hymn, and 

the booms from my father began.

But this time, there was no cringing.

This time, there was no shrinking down in the bench.

I sat tall, I sat proudly.

First: I am grateful for my father's strident voice. 

That means I can hear.

Second: I am grateful for the children in the surrounding benches 

who turn to look at my father. 

That means they can hear too.

Third: I am grateful my father comes to church.

He always stands as Christ would, and it is the greatest gift my father could ever give me.

His humor is incredibly dry and cheesy, and he laughs at his own jokes.

He makes the best hashbrowns. He makes up his own songs. He abundantly provides.

And I love him lots. 

I do, I do, I do.