One Way

This is only the second Father’s Day I’ve been away from my dad. The last time was three years ago when I was in Africa. I left for church that morning with an itch in my throat. My teammate was down with some nasty virus—we thought it might be malaria. I would’ve stayed with her, but we were supposed to work on a play with the children after the service, so I went anyway.             The sun was well up in the sky by the time I climbed into the bright orange van with the pastor and his family. Church couldn’t start without us, or so I thought. When we got there, they were already worshiping. Loudly. And in Africa, that means blaring every instrument and microphone as loud as they will go.             I don’t remember what the sermon was about, but I do remember that every minute that passed in that wobbly, red plastic chair, my throat was closing up and my head was p...