When I respond to comments on the channel Off the Left Eye, I read a bunch of stories about visitations. People who've had their mother, or husband appear in a vivid dream, eagerly retell the events. 

 

Nothing like this has happened to me. 

 

Not that I am complaining. My mother did bequest me a treasure trove of glimmering reactions to her new surroundings, as she lay dying. My father has been silent, but I do not hold it against him. Now that the last of his barbershop quartet has joined him in heaven he is pretty busy singing bass. 

 

Yet this week, a friend who had my dad as a teacher in seventh grade blessed me with a memory. He managed to keep her attention long enough to instill four words that have endured these sixty years. 

 

Compulsion. Habit. Confidence. Delight.

 

I knew that this quartet of directives was significant enough that I embroidered them for him in gold thread. There were no flowers, or embellishments. I was not an accomplished needleworker. But it made his Christmas bright. 

 

Hearing them spoken again makes my Advent bright as well, as I wrestle with the sequence that so aptly describes my journey. 

 

I walked this week even as the Moon was reluctant to pass the sky over to the Sun. It was below freezing, and stepping into the wind took compulsion. Yet there was the inertia of habit too, pushing my feet into sneakers. 

 

"Don't waver. This is what I do."

 

 As I headed up the road, I felt confident that I would be able to finish the three miles with my friend. This has not always been the case. I am not yet one of those people who finds pleasure in plodding through a few thousand steps, though having a companion beside me is a close second. 

 

My father has not appeared before me at the foot of my bed, as some people describe. But in the quiet of the early morning as I find the stamina to do what is hard, I feel his influence. 

 

Which is as comforting as any lullaby.