Soul Care - at the feet of my Elders

I always feared losing my father at a young age. Both my paternal grandparents died of sudden and massive heart attacks—my Tāttā (grandfather) in his fifties and my Pāṭṭi (grandmother) in her sixties. My father and all of his surviving brothers had heart attacks in their fifties. I was 11 when my father had his. Longevity seemed to elude my paternal side, a terrifying reality for a little girl to grapple with.

I used to have a recurring nightmare as a child. In it, I would see a man who looked exactly like my father, only he had white hair and a white mustache and would quietly be looking at me from a distance, wherever I was in that dream. He wasn't doing anything scary, but he frightened me. The man in my dream was nothing like the thunderous force of nature that is my father, who at the time had a thick mustache and raven black hair that he styled with Brylcreem.

Growing up, we had family prayer when my mother was off from night duty at the hospital. My father was known for his lengthy prayers, which seemed more like sermons. Other times, they seemed like a litany of complaints before the throne of God. During those prayers, I would sometimes peek open one eye to see what my brother was doing; if his eyes were open, I would look at him with a look of "How can Dad talk to God that way?!" Didn't Proverbs tell us, "The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom"? I wasn't judging my father nor questioning his wisdom, but I did worry that it wasn't allowed. That how we felt about things wasn't allowed to be voiced to God in that way—raw honesty, with no spiritual veneer.

The Spirit of the Most High God was acknowledged in every facet of our lives. I learned more about who God is from my parents and elders than I ever did sitting in the pews on Sunday. God was at the helm of everything, from major events to the mundanities of life. My parents didn't tell us, they showed us. Always acknowledging the Spirit of God among us. It was never about religion but relationship to Source and reliance on God's provision in a perpetually unfair world.

I never appreciated the faith of my people more than when I was living far away from them. As I went through my own struggles, losses, and pain, I remembered the prayers of my father and understood that they were never a litany of complaints but the lamentations of someone who knows God and who is known by God. Relationship. My father knew a God with the expansiveness to hold his truth and the pain of his human experience, not only his praise.

Recently, while having dinner with my parents and extended family, I glanced across the table to see my father, who is now 85, soon to be 86. His hair is now white, and he is quieter and more peaceful these days. I realized that he now looks just like the man from the dreams of my childhood. They weren't nightmares. I was scared by what I did not understand then, but can see clearly now. It was God's way of assuring me that I would get to see my father grow old and that he would live to see the things his father never did.

We are survivors of colonization. My father didn't passively live through it but was actively caught in its crosshairs from the time of his birth through forced migration, war, and partition. He lived through the end of an empire and is the embodiment of our family's resilience. This truth is where I find my footing in the chaos of a violent and unjust world. Where there was death and destruction, my people continued to reach for life. The practice of remembrance grounds me in who I am in relation to the Divine and my forbears. I am in constant awe of the ways Creator speaks to me and weaves together the story of my existence. This relationship informs my work as a Soul Care practitioner who lives beyond the confinement of labels spiritually and theologically. May this reflection ignite something in you too.

• Rebekah