Joseph Ratzinger's prophecyThe power of Céline DionIgnacio Belzunce and a lesson in JaizkibelSince my father passed away, I had not opened the plastic container in which my mother had sent me the things she thought I would be interested in: some photos, his sailor cap, several books... But I had not seen that package with my name written on it!
My heart skipped a beat when I recognized my father's handwriting. From its weight and size, it looked like a book, but what was it? Did it have a dedication? And why, in so many years, had my mother not told me of its existence?
There would be time to look for a culprit; the important thing then was to see what was inside. My trembling hands barely managed to undo the loop of the string and tear the kraft paper of the wrapping. Inside, an old notebook with yellowed gridded pages. On the cover, glued, a cardboard card with a typed title: The book of life. The pad smelled of Imedio glue, and as I flipped through it, I saw that it contained numerous newspaper clippings and photographs.
On the first page he had written: "Dear son, I love you. I have loved you from the moment your mother and I found out you were on your way. I have loved you during the wonderful years when you shared a place in our home. I loved you when you left to start your own family. And now that I am no longer with you, I still love you for eternity. But since I cannot communicate with you from here, I have thought of writing this book so that it can serve as a guide and support in your day to day life".
Each page of the notebook was a true marvel. Stories and accounts of our family that explained many of my hobbies and obsessions; advice on how to carry on with marriage, work or the education of my children; words of consolation in the face of failure, encouragement in times of low hours, sobriety in the face of success... So much wisdom given in those pages! And all this explained with humility, without trying to impose, but with the gentleness and pedagogy of a loving father, as he was. It was not the diary of a narcissist, but a generous gift made of scraps of life.
I spent the whole afternoon reading each warning, surprising myself with each detail marked with red marker in the photographs, learning about human nature with each comment to the news clippings... On the last page, I had drawn a path that was lost in a horizon behind which rays of light flashed. At the bottom of the illustration, the sentence: "I hope that someday you will come by your own path to the light that I have already found; and that in this way you too can be lamp for your children. I cried, I laughed, but most of all I felt very, very loved.
I returned all the mementos to the storage box to take it back up to the storage room, but the notebook I carried to my bedroom bookcase with the intention of returning to it whenever I felt like it. As I placed it in the recess on the shelf, I noticed that right next to it was the old collector's edition bible that he gave me when I got married and that he so insisted I read from time to time. A thin layer of dust covered its leather cover. I don't know how many years it had been there, untouched.
Curiosity piqued, I took it out, opened a page at random and my gaze stopped, without knowing why, on one of its verses: "Your word is a lamp for my steps, light on my path".
I smiled.
Maybe he had had two books of life all this time... and he was just now beginning to know it.
Journalist. Graduate in Communication Sciences and Bachelor in Religious Sciences. He works in the Diocesan Delegation of Media in Malaga. His numerous "threads" on Twitter about faith and daily life have a great popularity.
