Honor

My dad has been gone for fifteen years. He was flawed, as we all are. But he also had the greatest capacity of forgiveness I’ve ever known, and he knew the value of mercy. Hair-trigger temper so hot he once pistol-whipped another man, some sort of antagonism of road rage. His provocateur probably never pulled over to challenge someone again. I wasn’t there, didn’t witness it. But I’ve heard the story and know this much is true: my dad had a gun in his hand, was furious, and didn’t pull the trigger, didn’t even point to aim.

That might not impress anyone but me—others might characterize it as assault with a deadly weapon. I reject that way of thinking. Without being present or having the event delineated in a timeline cause and effect, I can assert with absolute certainty that my dad didn’t throw the first punch, he took it (I saw the singular bruise, the swollen eye).

How do I know this? The man who raised me to never start a fight but finish every single one I find myself in wouldn’t have his actions betray his words. Did the .44 do more damage than a rock or an empty bottle? I seriously doubt it. If he had pointed instead of palmed his pistol, again, it would be a different story.

My father was merciful instead of murderous. I’ll always respect that.