The Old Man and the Knee

I used to walk with my father most nights for an hour. We’d walk from his place in Lynden, Washington in a three-mile loop, but could shorten it to two miles if needed. As the years wore on, we had to slow down, and then shorten it to the two-mile trek; finally, Dad just stopped walking. The pain was too much. “Go on without me,” he said. Some nights I did, but my thoughts were a poor substitute for conversation with Pastor Bob Lott. Not nearly as many of the world’s problems got solved.

The culprit was his left knee. Arthritis was the least of his troubles. Dad has always walked with a limp but he hates it when you call it that. His firstborn son got one too. Our right hips don’t swivel like they should. This gives us a distinct gait that you can pick out in a crowd. We end up bobbing side-to-side trying to walk in a straight line. Done with enough confidence, this looks like a swagger. Bravado aside, it’s still a limp that makes the left knee the real beast of burden.