My father woke up before the sun for as long as I can remember. He set the alarm for 4:00 a.m., padded downstairs, and made coffee in a pot that had seen better days. The house smelled of strong coffee and oil from his work boots, and those two scents became the quiet soundtrack of my childhood.
He worked with his hands—fixing roofs, tuning engines, carrying other people’s burdens so ours would be lighter. He worked two jobs when we needed it, and he never complained about the hours. I learned to read the map of his palms: calluses from tools, a small scar on his thumb from a summer he spent rebuilding our porch. Those marks were his medals.
Some mornings he would wake me gently, not because I had to be somewhere important but because he wanted me to see the world before it hurried into noise. We would stand on the porch and watch the first pale light spill across the fields. He taught me to notice small things: the way a rooster stretches, the hush of a street before people wake, the way a single cup of coffee can steady a day. He taught me that discipline looks a lot like love.
He showed love in practical ways. When my bike chain snapped, he sat on the curb and taught me how to fix it. When I failed a test, he sat with me at the kitchen table and helped me study until the words made sense. He never gave me answers without teaching me how to find them. He believed in work, in showing up, and in doing the small things that add up to a life.
There were times I resented the early mornings, the missed dinners, the tired eyes at bedtime. Later I understood those sacrifices were his way of building a future for us. At his funeral, I realized how many people had been steadied by his quiet presence—neighbors who needed a hand, friends who needed a laugh, a community that relied on his steady work.
Now, when I wake before the sun, I think of him. I make coffee in the same chipped pot and feel less alone. I try to pass on what he taught me: show up, work with your hands and your heart, and notice the small light that comes before dawn. His life was not loud or famous, but it was full of purpose.
He woke before the sun to give us light. I carry that light with me every day.
