Father and Son ( or Morning Has Broken)

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Yahya was the brother of one of our Lebanese friends. He told us a rather touching story about him and his father.


When Yahya was a teenager, he liked to sleep late but his father was an early riser. So in the mornings his father would burst noisily into Yahya’s bedroom. “Get up, you lazy boy,” he would shout, and he would drag Yahya out of bed. This went on day after day for years. And Yahya hated it.

Then one day, when he was a young adult, Yahya decided that he’d had enough of this treatment.

“Oh, my father,” he said. “Why is that that every morning you come into my room like the Israeli army? You shout and scream and you drag me out of bed. By Allah, it is a very cruel way to wake me. Couldn’t you wake me in a more gentle way?”

The next morning his father opened the bedroom door quietly and walked softly over to the bed. He put his hand on Yahya’s shoulder and gave him the gentlest of shakes.

“Oh, my son,” he crooned. “The night has ended and a new day is beginning. The silver moon has gone to rest and the golden orb of the sun has begun its journey across the azure sky. It is time for you to open your beautiful eyes.”

Yahya sat up.

“Oh, thank you, my father,” he said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, my son.”

They embraced, and they cried tears of happiness and love.

The following morning his father burst into the bedroom like the Israeli army again and dragged Yahya out of bed.
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