I found this decorative plate at a little market store in Madison, Alabama where individual vendors sell their crafts and wares through various display booths. The black-on-white words immediately struck my memory.
“Where have I heard this?”
My brain stormed movies and music it had catalogued over my 41 years. It did not take long for James Earl Jones’ booming voice to manifest in my mind as Mufasa, the Lion King.
“Remember who you are,” Mufasa’s spirit-cloud urged his son, Simba, who was struggling to embrace his identity and destiny as the next Lion King.
Devoted Disney fan as I am, I knew I had to have this plate. Or did I? I’m a recovering impulse buyer and have sincerely tried to curb spending on the spur of the moment. Which begs the question: why was I shopping this store to begin with? I digress.
My mom was with me, and in her Mufasa-esque wisdom said, “You’ll regret it if you don’t get it.” The plate was priced $5.00. I’d paid much more for things I liked far less.
I was sold.
The plate’s black-and-white color scheme perfectly complements our kitchen. It is on proud display, but not just because I have a penchant for decorating or a whimsical love of Disney.
I want my daughters to know their Circle of Life.
Mufasa reminds me of my daddy. My big brother Chad and I experienced most often his stern side:
“Zazu, take Nala home. I need to have a chat with my son.”
My baby brother Jeremy shared a more light-hearted bond:
“Because nobody messes with your dad.”
Cue their playful pouncing.
Chad and I weren’t disciplined differently because we got into trouble. Jeremy was more mischievous than Chad and I combined. For us, daddy was simply father first, friend seldom. That role reversed somehow as Jeremy grew, though Mom will tell you Daddy “knew how to get Jeremy’s attention.”
Like Simba, my brothers and I were denied a relationship with our dad as adults. Our loss was not at the hands of an evil uncle, but the devastating early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.
I look at that plate and, by order of descendants, don’t know who I am. Daddy’s death and complicated family ties make it difficult to trace our Echols family tree. But I can put a finger on the root of my faith, and that seed was definitively planted by my daddy.
Daddy prayed a lot and he prayed long. If he was called on to pray at church, it was a good idea to sit comfortably before he started because the odds were he would take a while. And I can still see him hunched at our kitchen table on Saturday nights, praying and preparing to teach the men’s Bible class in Sunday School the next day.
At daddy’s funeral, the preacher said one of the most hopeful things I have ever heard; that my daddy’s prayers for my brothers and me “are stored in Heaven.” God spoke to me in that remark and it has stayed with me these 13 years, assuring me that my daddy’s prayers are still interceding.
My daughters may not know much about their ancestors, but their faith roots are easy to find. They are planted in the prayers my daddy uttered for me and, I believe, for the granddaughters he never met.
Mufasa’s plea to Simba is not unlike my daddy’s prayers.
“Remember who you are…” Mufasa roars as the wind carries away his cloud. “…Remember…”
Simba followed his dad in that moment and found his belonging. I’m trying to follow my daddy, so that every time my girls glance that black-and white-plate on our kitchen wall, they, too, will remember who they are.
“The effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much.”
(James 5:16)
