PAY ATTENTION

My father did not call it wisdom.

He called it

pay attention.

Not like a command.

Like a way to live.

Like a way to survive.

Like humility

with its sleeves rolled up.

He said,

don’t let your mouth write a check

your character cannot cash.

He said,

a clean heart is worth more

than a clean reputation,

because people can lie on your name,

but God knows where you live.

He said,

never get so proud

of what you know

that you stop being taught

by what you don’t.

The world is always speaking.

A child can teach you.

A stranger can teach you.

A mistake can teach you.

An enemy can teach you.

A hard day can teach you

what comfort never could.

He said,

truth does not always come dressed

like someone you respect.

Take it anyway.

He said,

watch how a person treats people

they do not need.

That is where the truth is.

Not in the handshake.

Not in the smile.

Not in the Sunday clothes.

Watch the way they speak

to the waiter.

Watch the way they handle

somebody’s weakness.

Watch who they become

when there is nothing to gain.

He said,

do not become loud

just because the world stopped listening.

A bell makes noise.

A tree gives shade.

Learn the difference.

He said,

a man can be tall

and still be small

if he cannot bow

when the truth walks in.

And my father was a giant.

Not because he stood over people.

Because he never had to.

His presence entered a room

before his voice did.

His silence had weight.

His yes meant something.

His no could stop you

at the edge of yourself.

He never raised his hand to me.

He raised a standard.

And somehow

that was heavier.

I did not fear his anger

as much as I feared

the quiet disappointment

in his eyes.

That was a holy kind of fear.

Not terror.

Reverence.

The fear of breaking trust

with someone

who believed you could be better

before you had proof.

He said,

when you borrow something,

bring it back better.

A tool.

A house.

A person’s trust.

This life.

He said,

do not call every open door

a blessing.

Some doors are open

because nobody wise

would walk through them.

He said,

your name enters rooms

before your body does,

so feed it well.

Give it work to stand on.

Give it mercy to speak with.

Give it enough truth

that it does not have to beg

to be believed.

He said,

a good name

is not what people call you.

It is what your life answers to

when nobody is watching.

He said,

do not be ashamed

to say,

“I don’t know.”

Be ashamed

to pretend you do.

A proud man

will walk past the lesson

because he does not like

the teacher.

A humble man

will pick up wisdom

even if it fell

from a mouth

he did not expect.

He said,

keep learning.

Read the book.

Read the room.

Read the silence.

Read the person

everybody else walks past.

God hides lessons

in places pride

is too tall to enter.

He said,

a man who cannot apologize

is still a boy

wearing his father’s shoes.

He said,

there are people

who will clap for your gift

and starve your spirit.

Know the difference

between being seen

and being cared for.

Know the difference

between applause

and love.

Applause is loud

and leaves fast.

Love may say nothing

and stay all night.

He said,

never confuse having less

with being less.

The table can be small

and still hold love.

The shoes can be worn

and still know the way.

The hands can be tired

and still bless the house.

He said,

some things you build

will not praise you back.

Build them anyway.

A roof does not thank the carpenter.

A child does not know

the cost of shelter

until the rain starts speaking.

A seed does not thank the hand

that covered it in dirt.

But plant anyway.

Cover anyway.

Build anyway.

Love anyway.

He said,

when life humbles you,

do not waste the lesson

trying to look unhurt.

A seed has to split

before it can rise.

A heart has to break open

before some truths

can get in.

He said,

do not let pain

make you hard

in places God made you tender.

Strength is not stone.

Strength is a hand

that could close

but chooses to open.

Strength is a man

who could frighten you

but chooses to teach you.

Strength is power

under control.

And that was my father.

A giant

who did not need violence

to be remembered.

A man

whose correction

did not have to destroy me

to reach me.

A man

who could make me straighten my back

with a look,

not because I was afraid

of what he would do,

but because I was afraid

of becoming less

than what he had poured into me.

That is love

when it has backbone.

That is fatherhood

when it has God in it.

He did not just want me

to be successful.

He wanted me

to be sound.

There is a difference.

Success can impress a room.

Soundness can survive one.

Success can buy a house.

Soundness knows

how to bless it.

Success can make people

know your name.

Soundness makes your name

safe in their mouths.

And I am older now.

Old enough to know

he was not just talking.

He was leaving maps

inside ordinary sentences.

He was putting lanterns

in my spirit

for roads I had not reached.

He was tucking bread

into my bones

for a hunger

I had not met yet.

He was teaching me

how to be a person

before the world taught me

how to perform.

So when the world gets heavy,

I go back.

Not just to the house.

Not just to the street.

Not even to the man

exactly as he was.

I go back

to what he put in me.

to the voice

that still says,

PAY ATTENTION.

To the look

that still asks,

is that who you are?

To the standard

that still stands

in the room of my chest

when nobody else is there.

HERBAK.

The kind of knowing

you do not learn from books.

The kind of love

that sounds like warning.

The kind of teaching

that waits in your bones

until your life finally asks for it

by name.

It came through my father’s hands.

Through his discipline.

Through his gentleness.

Through his silence.

Through his learning.

Through the way he stayed humble

even when he was right.

Through the way he kept looking

for new information

as if wisdom was not a throne

a man sits on,

but a road

a man keeps walking.

And maybe that is why

his lessons still live.

Because he did not teach me

to worship what I knew.

He taught me

to stay open.

To stay reachable.

To stay corrected.

To stay human.

What he gave me

came through Black hands,

through lived days,

through work,

through prayer,

through the kind of love

that does not always explain itself

but keeps showing up anyway.

But it is not wisdom

for only one kind of person.

Anybody with a father,

or anybody who needed one,

would know the sound of it.

Anybody who has ever been loved

by someone steady

would understand.

Anybody who has ever feared

disappointing a good man

more than punishment

would know exactly

what I mean.

Because some fathers

do not have to leave bruises

to leave a mark.

Some leave standards.

Some leave prayers.

Some leave sentences

you spend your whole life

growing tall enough

to understand.

My father did not call it wisdom.

He called it

PAY ATTENTION

And I do.

God help me,

I do.

Every day,

I do.

Because a father like that

does not disappear

when he is absent.

He becomes the place inside you

where your best self

keeps standing up.