The Prescription of My Fragility

 Today I have not felt my best.

A headache interrupted my entire day. It wasn’t the kind that asks for permission. It simply arrives, settles behind my eyes, and everything else has to wait. By late afternoon the ache had finally loosened its grip, but my body still felt drained. I found myself sitting quietly with a bowl of sliced watermelon. The sweetness felt refreshing against my tongue. I sighed out loud, “God…I’m so fragile.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I wasn’t sitting at my table anymore.

I was a little girl telling my dad, “My head hurts.”

My bonus mom once told me my dad was always the most concerned about me out of all four of us girls. Not because I was sick more often, but because of how I loved. She said he would look at me and say, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with her. She’s so sensitive.”

Then he’d shake his head almost as if he were talking to himself.

“She’s so sweet.”

Those words mean something different to me now than they did then.

To everyone else my father was this big, assertive man. His “Hey!” could shake the walls. His presence filled every room before he even walked into it. But somehow my softness quieted him. My sensitivity introduced me to a version of my father many people never knew existed.

He never raised that booming voice at me.

He’d simply look at my face and somehow know.

“Come here.”

I remember lying down while 101 Eastbound by Fourplay echoed softly through the room. The piano floated through the air as incense burned nearby, the fragrance wrapping itself around me until even the room seemed to exhale.

Then my dad’s hands.

To this day, when I smell eucalyptus, I don’t think of essential oils. I think of him.

His fingertips, lavished with eucalyptus oil, would begin beneath my chin, moving slowly in rhythm with the piano. Across my jawbone. Around my lips. Over my cheeks. Gently across my closed eyes. The bridge of my nose. My temples. My forehead. The crown of my head. Then the back of my head where his fingers lingered just long enough for me to feel the tension begin to surrender.

Not once did I feel rushed.

Not once did I feel like my headache had become everyone else’s problem.

If anything, my interruption became an invitation for tenderness.

Then came the ear candles.

I honestly thought my daddy had lost his mind.

My head already hurts, and you’re about to put fire next to my ear?

But I trusted him.

Afterward he’d hand me a glass of water and wait until I finished it. Then he’d lay a cool towel across my face. I can still remember the relief of that first cool touch against warm skin.

Then he’d ask for my hand.

He’d massage each finger, applying pressure down the center until he reached the palm of my hand. I never understood why he did it. I just knew it felt comforting. Years later I watched my bonus mom doing the same thing to him while he had a headache.

I asked her, “If Daddy’s head hurts, why are you rubbing his hands?”

She smiled.

“The hands have pressure points that connect to the head.”

I remember looking at her in complete shock.

So every finger he massaged…
Every place he pressed…
Every movement of his hands…

He knew exactly what he was doing.

By the time he reached my second hand, I was asleep.

When I’d wake, my headache would be gone. The air always felt crisp afterward, almost as if the whole house had rested with me. I’d smell dinner coming from the kitchen before I even opened my eyes. My dad would already be cooking while my bonus mom peeked into my room asking how I felt.

Then she’d remind me to soak in Epsom salt.

She’d run crystals over my head, guide me through breathing exercises, anoint me with oil, and remind me how wonderful I was.

By the time I finished my bath, there was peppermint tea waiting for me.

Looking back, I realize something I couldn’t have understood as a child.

My dad never treated my headache like an inconvenience.

He never told me to go take medicine and sleep it off.

Instead he’d ask me, “Where’s my headache?”

Not, “Where’s your headache.”

“My headache.”

He’d ask how much water I’d been drinking. When was the last time I exercised? What had I been thinking about before my head started hurting?

He wasn’t just trying to get rid of the pain.

He was trying to understand me.

Maybe that’s why, when I whispered today, “God, I’m so fragile,” I didn’t hear it as criticism.

I heard my father’s voice.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”

“She’s so sensitive.”

“She’s so sweet.”

As a little girl, I thought those words meant he worried about me.

As a woman, I think they meant he treasured me.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never been able to see my sensitivity as something that needed fixing.

My father never treated it like a flaw.

He treated it like something precious enough to protect.

Sometimes I wonder if God made me this way on purpose.

Not only so my father could teach me gentleness, but so I could teach him gentleness too.

Maybe my fragility wasn’t an accident.

Maybe it was God’s way of softening a strong man while teaching a little girl that needing care never made her a burden.

It made her precious.

And perhaps learning to love myself has simply been remembering the way my father loved me whenever life interrupted with something as small as a headache.

Before the Uniform

 

Lately, I’ve been looking at old videos of my father, reading newspaper articles, and tracing dates that once felt insignificant. Funny how a date can sit quietly on a page for years until one day it decides to speak.

I never met my grandparents, John Franklin Thomas and Loretta Hilda Thomas. Looking at their photographs now hurts in a way I did not expect. Perhaps it is because they no longer look like someone’s grandparents to me. They look young. They look like people who should have had more time.

My grandfather died in May of 1968. Ten months later, my grandmother died in October of 1969.

Every time I say “ten months,” I think about childbirth.

The amount of time it takes to bring a child into the world is the same amount of time that passed between my grandfather leaving this one and my grandmother following behind him.

Ten months.

When I learned that, I stopped looking at my father’s football career the same way.

Most people begin his story when he was drafted by the Dallas Cowboys in 1970. They begin with the uniform. The statistics. The contract disputes. The headlines. The silence.

But what if the story begins before that?

What if the story begins with a young man whose childhood had already been interrupted by responsibility?

My parents became parents while they were still children themselves. My oldest sibling was born in 1964. Another followed in 1966. My father was attending West Texas State while my mother was at Bishop College in Dallas raising toddlers. Neither one of them knew exactly what they were doing.

How could they?

People like to say young parents “grow up fast,” but I don’t think that’s entirely true. I think they figure things out while life keeps moving. There is trial and error. There are mistakes. There are victories no one applauds because survival itself becomes the accomplishment.

Then my grandparents died.

When people tell my father’s story, they often talk about what he lost or gained in football.

I find myself thinking about what was lost at home.

When my grandparents died, my father lost his parents.

His brothers and sisters lost their parents too.

The family lost its foundation.

The weight became heavier.

And yet, almost immediately afterward, the world met Duane Thomas the football player.

What fascinates me is how little room there seems to be in sports history for a person’s actual life.

Fans remember touchdowns.

Newspapers remember controversy.

Commentators remember contracts.

Yet very few stop to consider what existed before a man’s feet ever touched the field.

My father once told me that people did not care what was happening in your personal life. They cared about your performance.

The older I get, the more I understand what he meant.

A young man can be grieving.

He can be helping support a family.

He can be helping his wife through college.

He can be worrying about younger siblings.

He can be carrying the pressures of racism in a changing America.

He can be trying to learn how to be a husband and a father.

Yet when Sunday arrives, none of that matters.

The crowd wants production.

The newspaper wants a story.

The organization wants results.

Everything else is expected to wait.

Stress, however, is not polite.

It does not wait to be invited.

It does not knock.

It barges in unannounced and makes itself comfortable.

Reading old articles now, I find myself wondering how often people mistook the symptoms for the story.

How often did they see frustration but not pressure?

How often did they see silence but not the reason for it?

How often did they see an athlete and miss the human being entirely?

My father used to tell me that famous people were people first.

I remember him introducing me to athletes and reminding me not to become starstruck.

“They’re people.”

Such a simple lesson.

Yet it may have been one of the greatest gifts he ever gave me.

Because I knew him as a person first.

Not as number 33.

Not as a headline.

Not as a controversy.

Not as a legend.

As a person.

As the man who loved words.

The man who painted.

The man who cooked meals so beautiful they felt like works of art.

The man who once looked at me and said, “I don’t know how to be a dad. I’m still figuring this stuff out.”

Maybe that is why this journey has made me emotional.

I am not discovering who my father was.

I already knew him.

I am discovering the weight he was carrying while he was being himself: Before the uniform. 

Your love still has no shelf life

 Today is Father’s Day, and it would have been my father’s birthday.

The sun is bright outside, but inside I feel a little overcast. The house is quiet, and part of me wishes my phone would ring and I could hear my father’s voice on the other end.

Father’s Day has a way of touching places that ordinary days don’t. Even when we’ve made peace with a loss, there are certain dates that remind us of the shape of that love and the space that person occupied in our lives.

A while before he passed, my father and I had a conversation about love. I told him I would never get married again. No courthouse. No name change. Never. He laughed. I told him, “Love is voluntary. I don’t need a license to love. When I help a homeless person, I volunteer. Love is a choice.”

He listened and then shared some wisdom only a father can give.

“One day, you may want to share your life with someone. Just remember, you won’t like them every day—but love is still a choice.”

Today, I wish I could call him and tell him something.

I’d tell him I’m no longer saying never.

I’d tell him that life has a way of softening convictions we once thought were permanent.

I’d tell him that after loss, disappointment, grief, and healing, I’ve discovered something beautiful: the desire to love never left me.

Death teaches us many things. One of them is that love doesn’t end when a person’s earthly life does.

I remember telling my father, “Your love has no shelf life.”

He would light up every time I said it.

Now I know it to be true.

My father is no longer physically present, but the lessons, the influence, the laughter, the memories, and the ways he shaped me continue to live within me. In that sense, he remains very near.

“His spirit never leaves me. He’s closer to me now than before.”

I know today may be difficult for many people. For some, this is the first Father’s Day without the man who was their hero. For others, it may be the second, tenth, or twentieth.

Whatever the number, the love remains.

The celebration simply changes.

My father was one of the most complex men I’ve ever known. Fierce on the football field, a celebrated running back, strong, determined, and unforgettable. But to me, he was so much more than any accomplishment.

He was Dad.

And while I am still renovating the space his absence created, I am grateful. Grateful for every lesson. Every conversation. Every laugh. Every correction. Every sacrifice. Every moment of love.

Today, I celebrate him.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Your love still has no shelf life.

My Prayer:

Heavenly Father, thank You for my father. Thank You for every lesson, every memory, every sacrifice, every laugh, and every moment of love. Thank You that what he gave me remains. I pray to feel Your peace and Your presence, every step forward. 

Amen. 🙏🏽❤️