He held my hand. He taught me to control a heard of cattle. A shepherd. His was a higher calling. He did it with passion. He was a shepherd of men.
He taught me the pleasure there is in being responsible, he made me proud to be his boy, his son, the boy he wanted to see become a man. and here I am, my fathers son.
I would run, knowing very well he was watching, shove the staff frantically at the wandering cattle back to the herd.
"Right there." He would say, "Good." He warmed the heart of a the boy me. He did. He was proud of me.
He taught me how to get the best herding staff. Not to beat the animals. No. It was a symbol of authority. As my mom would remind me whenever the animals broke the fence into the Shamba and destroyed food-crops, you graze the animals and not the other way round! ... and that stick symbolized the authority of a young herds boy. A sign of authority. A mantle.
He would look at me with that great smile on his face that only a father can have for his son and right there, I would consume that smile as if it was my favorite meal, and I knew, yes I knew, I am with my dad. My father is with me, my fathers son.
He is my hero, and whenever I have a chance, I have to say, 'I am proud to be my father's son.
He never tell me how to live; he lives, and let me watch him do it.
"Whose son are you, young man?"
1 Sam 17:58
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