Marigolds and Coffee

The term "everything happens for a reason" gets thrown around a lot and used out of context. But in my case, it couldn't have applied more.

I have never been a particularly religious person. My parents never pushed religion on me. My Grandma took my sister and me to church when we were little, but nothing ever came of that. We got older and lost interest, and that was it. It wasn't until I saved my Dad's life that I knew we were not alone.

Growing up, I idolized my Dad. I wanted to be just like him and do everything like him. And we were best friends. He attended all my Boy Scout camps, school events and was never too tired. It didn't matter how long his day was; he always had time for me. It was always my Dad and me versus my Mom and sister when it came to family game night. And every summer, my Dad and I would go against my Mom and sister over who could grow the nicest barrel of flowers. My Dad's favorite flower was the marigold. I was always amazed at how my Dad had such a delicate touch in the garden when he was usually such a boisterous alpha male type. But when he was working with his marigolds, he became a completely different person. Dad and I won every summer.

When my Dad would be having his coffee, I always drank my milk out of a coffee mug pretending to drink coffee with him. When I was about ten, my parents allowed me to drink a little coffee on special occasions. One of these special occasions was on road trips to see the grandparents. My Dad and I had a tradition that we would always stop at our favorite gas station at the halfway point for snacks and drinks. We would pull in; I would yell at my sister, "My turn!" signifying her end to the enjoyment of the front seat, and I would follow my Dad into the gas station. There was one coffee in particular that we both loved, Kona coffee, a Hawaiian blend. We both, for whatever reason, just loved it. And it was the coffee we always chose, year after year on these trips. Nothing made me feel more adult than walking out of the gas station with my Dad, each with a coffee. Climbing into the front seat, coffee in hand, I felt more like one of my Dad's old buddies than his son. My sister would usually fall asleep in the back with Mom, and while sipping our coffees, Dad and I would talk nonstop, and the rest of the trip just fell away to great conversation, lots of laughs, and Kona coffee. Of course, at the time, I had no idea this love for the Kona brand would be what saved his life years later.

As I got older and into my teens, my Dad and I hit a rocky patch, as many fathers and sons do. We argued, oh boy, did we ever argue. We were both stubborn, and the arguments always lasted longer than they should have. He was still a champion, however, and never wavered in his support for me. I always knew he was one phone call away if I ever needed a ride home in the middle of the night. He made sure I knew that, no matter how bad a fight we were having at the time. Through these troubling years, the Kona coffee tradition remained when we would see the grandparents. It was one of the few things we were able to find common ground. And it was as if those coffees were full of magic because the moment we were back in the car, we were best friends again. The arguments melted away, and the long talks and laughs returned. We sipped our coffees with smiles on our faces as if we had never said an unkind word to each other. If I had known then what would happen years later, I would have insisted the coffee was indeed full of magic.

Two things happen between fathers and sons as you grow out of your teen years. You either become best friends again or go down a path where the fighting becomes more personal and irreparable damage occurs. Unfortunately, that was the path my Dad and I took. I didn't finish school and had a lot of trouble figuring out what I wanted to do with my life. I ended up doing odd jobs that I never really enjoyed and would not stay at for long. I know this disappointed my Dad, and it slowly created a rift between us that lasted throughout my twenties. I wish I could say that the coffee tradition continued and that the troubles melted away when we had our Konas in hand. But they didn't. I stopped going on the road trips to see the grandparents, and those wonderful coffee moments faded away.

As I drifted into my thirties, I finally settled on a job I didn't like but was good at, and it paid well. It gave my life stability, and this made my Dad happy. Our relationship improved, but it was not the same. Awkward moments of silence were a regular occurrence in our conversations. At this point, he had left town to look after his father, and our relationship consisted mainly of phone calls. And when he did visit, he seemed to time the visits when I would always be working. I wanted to believe it wasn't intentional, but I would be lying if I said I didn't feel some resentment towards him over this. I called him out over it one night, he denied it. We went back and forth and ended up airing all our grievances with one another. We said things I know we both regret. The phone calls became less frequent after that.

A year later, his father passed away. I thought, or maybe deep down, I hoped that this would bring us closer again. It didn't. If anything, it only seemed to widen the gap that had grown between us. And when we did talk, it felt more like a formality. Talking because we thought we should not because we wanted to.

The day I realized there was something else in this world that had a plan for us was when I decided to pick up some coffee. At the time, I had been working graveyard shifts and only drinking coffee at work. What made me decide I wanted to buy coffee that afternoon I will never know. I walked down the coffee aisle, looking over the brands. My eyes settled onto a container of fresh bulk Kona coffee beans. My mind was instantly back in the car, sipping Kona with my Dad, talking and laughing. I had to buy some. I pulled the lever and filled up a bag of Kona beans.

When I got home, I immediately dialed my Dad's number. For the first time in a long time, I was excited to talk to him. When he answered, I told him I had just bought some Kona coffee beans and was about the brew myself a pot. Hearing this seemed to make him happy. I like to think his mind was also back in the car on those wonderful road trips. He didn't sound like himself though, his voice was off, and it sounded like he had to make a great effort to talk to me. I passed it off that he was just tired. We had a pleasant conversation, the first since our big blowout over a year ago. The conversation didn't last long, but we talked as if we were best friends again while it did. When we hung up, I was still smiling. Kona coffee had brought my Dad and me together again, however briefly and for the first time in many years, we ended a conversation happy.

Later that evening, I decided to brew myself another pot of Kona coffee. As I put the coffee on, I decided to call my Dad again. Conversations between my Dad and I had been very scarce up to today, and never twice in the same day. But today was different, and I wanted to tell him I was making another pot of Kona. It was more than that, though; I wanted to talk to my Dad. Something I hadn't felt in a long time. As the coffee was brewing, I dialed his number. He didn't answer. The coffee finished brewing, and I poured myself a cup, dialing dad again as I sat down. Again he didn't answer. Maybe he's in the shower or out shopping. One thing about my Dad was he always called me back regardless of where we were in our relationship. When an hour passed and I had not heard from him, I developed a feeling I couldn't quite understand—a knowing feeling but of what I didn't know.

I picked up the phone and called him again and still no answer. Something was not right, and by now, I knew he was not okay. I dialed him, again and again, it just rang. I was about to hang up and call a friend of his to check on him when he finally answered. He had that same voice from earlier. Like it was a struggle to talk, but worse now. He was barely able to form sentences and was not making sense. I asked him if he was okay, and he assured me he was. I told him I did not think so. Something deep down in me knew Dad was not okay and told him I would send him an ambulance. He struggled to say to me that was not necessary. I hung up, and I called 911.

When the paramedics arrived, Dad was near death. It turned out Dad's health had gotten incredibly bad. Pain in his back and hips were plaguing him daily, but he was suffering in silence. He had turned to pain killers and continued to up the amount the more the pain increased. The day I couldn't reach him, he had gone weeks with barely any food or water; his body had shut down. Later, the doctor who looked after him told me that he would have died if I hadn't sent the ambulance that night. I saved his life.

It was this experience that made me a believer that we are not alone in this universe. That there is some force setting events in motion. For my Dad and I, it was the beginning of that coffee tradition and our love for Kona coffee. Had it not been for that tradition, there would have been no reason for me even to notice those Kona coffee beans at the grocery store. I wouldn't have bought them, and I wouldn't have gone home to call my Dad. It would have been a typical day where we most likely would not have talked. And he would have died that night.

Was it God? Chance? Or extreme coincidence? Was a higher power at work? I will never know. But I do know there was no denying that on that first day when my Dad and I walked out of the gas station with our Kona coffees so many years ago that it set in motion a series of events that would one day lead to me saving his life.

Since that day, my Dad has moved back home. I wish I could say we became best friends again, but those awkward moments of silence are still there. It doesn't bother me anymore, though. He sometimes brings up the moment I saved his life. And I can see in his eyes how proud he is of me when he talks about it. That is enough for me.