Heaven in Father’s Eyes | Tebuireng Online

“Man, have you left for school?” The hoarse voice broke the silence of the morning in a simple house at the tip of the small alley.

“Yes, yeah. Soon,” Firman answered while tidying his junior high school uniform.

Pak Darma, Firman’s father, sat in a wooden chair near the door, staring blankly at the window that he had not cleaned for a long time. His eyes that were blind since the accident ago were no longer able to see the world, but his heart, as if he had his own eyes that were sharper than anyone.

“Just bring the bread, yes. Don’t forget to drink tea before leaving.”

The Word smiled a little. “Yes, yeah.” He knew, even though his father did not see, he memorized every corner of the house, every location of the item, even his breathing sound.

After sipping warm tea, Firman stood in front of his father. “Well, later in the afternoon I will go straight to the meatball stall, yes. I go home a little late.”

Pak Darma nodded slowly. “Don’t forget to pray in between work. Remember, man, we may be less in many things, but don’t be less grateful.”

The Word looked down, holding back the tightness that often came every time he heard that advice. I’m grateful? For him, life like this sometimes feels too heavy to be grateful. But he never dared to refute his father.

****

That afternoon, after school was finished, the Word changed clothes in the school bathroom. He folded his uniform neatly, put into the bag, then he pedaled the bicycle to the meatball stall where he worked as a servant.

In the stall, he delivered orders, washing glasses, and cleaning the table until night. The owner of the stall, Mr. Suyono, sometimes gives him a portion of free meatballs before going home. “Eat first, Man. Stomach is full, heart calm,” he said.

The Word just smiled, even though in his heart he wanted to answer, “A full stomach is not necessarily calm, sir.” But he holds it. He has learned that silence is the best way to store wounds.

At home, Mr. Darma sat on the mat, his fingers felt the beads. When he heard the sound of a bicycle, he smiled.

“Have you come home, Man?”

“Yes, yeah.”

The Word immediately sat next to his father. He put the money from his work on a small table. “This is to buy rice tomorrow.”

Pak Darma felt the money, then sighed. “Man, if you’re tired, say. Dad doesn’t want you to force yourself too much.”

“If I don’t work, what do we eat, yeah?”

Lonely. Only the sound of the wall clock that was heard.

Then Pak Darma’s soft voice played, “Sometimes we don’t need to answer all questions with logic. There are times when we answer with confidence. God is enough for His servants, Man.”

Word was silent. Sometimes he feels his father is too resigned. But on the other hand, he knew, surrender was what made them still able to smile even though the situation often squeezed.

Their days went on like that. Words of school morning, work day to night. The morning before leaving, he always prepared breakfast for his father: tea and warm sweet bread or yesterday’s wastewater. He also washed his father’s clothes and swept the house.

Sometimes, tired makes him want to stop. Once one night, he went home with unsteady steps, then sat on the floor and cried quietly. But his father seemed to feel.

“Man … are you crying?” asked his father quietly.

The Word rubbed his eyes quickly. “No, yeah. Just tired.”

Pak Darma reached out, touching his son’s head. “You are strong, son. But remember, that power does not mean never tired. Strength is to keep going even though tired.”

At school, Firman is known to be quiet. His friends rarely know his life story. He deliberately hid it, afraid of being a pity or ridicule. But the Indonesian language teacher, Mrs. Rini, once called him after class.

“Firman, you hear you work after school. Is that true?”

The Word looked down. “Yes, ma’am.”

“For living expenses?”

It just nodded.

Mrs. Rini smiled warmly. “Son, life is not about who is the fastest, but who is the most powerful. You have done it. Mother is proud.”

He took him home like a gift. Night, he told his father.

Pak Darma patted his shoulder. “Look, Man? Allah send people to strengthen you.”

Although often grateful, the Word did not deny there was when he was upset. Once one day, he came home and found a messy house because the mouse tabbed the drawer. He picked up their savings paper flakes eaten by rats.

“Well! Why didn’t this afternoon hear the sound of a mouse?!”

Pak Darma was silent. His face bowed. “Sorry, Man. Dad can’t—”

“Yes, you can’t see! Dad can’t do anything! Everything I have to take care of!”

The words just slid. Once finished saying it, Firman immediately regretted.

Pak Darma just smiled faintly. “If that makes you relieved, angry, son. But don’t let that anger settled in your heart. It’s hard if you take sleep.”

That night, Firman cried quietly in his room. The next morning, he apologized. And as usual, his father only answered, “Already, Man. Dad never kept angry for his own child.”

****

One afternoon, in the middle of the drizzle, Firman came home early because the meatball stall was quiet. He found his father sitting facing the Qibla, praying in a soft voice.

“Oh my God … take care of my son. Be strong, keep his life, open the food. If you want, just take the rest of my life to improve his age …”

The word stood at the door. Suddenly, everyone was tired, angry, and frustrated because it fell with rain. He stepped closer, hugging his father from behind.

“Well … don’t say that.”

Pak Darma smiled. “Dad just want to make sure you are not alone in this world, Man. If you can’t guide you with your eyes, let your prayer guide your steps.”

Time goes on, the Word grows into a mature teenager prematurely. He learned that strength is not only a matter of muscles, but also a sincere heart to accept and keep trying.

He began to save little by little. His dream is simple: Want to be able to continue school to high school, then work with enough salary to make his father happy.

Although their journey is full of twists, one thing that never disappears is the size. In the midst of limitations, they still have a roof to shelter, food to eat, and heart to strengthen each other.

Sometimes, the word thinking, maybe his father said it was true: “We are not poor, man. We are just being tested. Poor if the heart has stopped hoping for God.” Every night, before going to bed, he always hears his father’s voice chanting prayers. That voice, somehow, makes this heavy world feel a little lighter.

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Writer: Ummu Masrurah