Meet my Dad

Listen to your father, who gave you life,
and do not despise your mother when she is old (Proverbs 23:22 NIV).

As we do each week, our Life group gathers at the dinner table and discuss a planned subject. This time, we talked about our fathers since Father’s Day had just passed. Some at the table had really good things to say about their fathers. Others, not so much.   “About the only thing I can say about my father is his name,”  she said, and then she stated his name. I’m sad that she didn’t possess the kind of father I had. I know I was blessed.

Meet my dad.

He was an only child, adopted by a couple who couldn’t have children of their own. Dad grew up on a farm as an only child. Strawberry blond, with wavy hair.

My dad was a pastor mostly in small congregations. Often he worked a second job to provide for his family. He grew up on a farm and knew how to make things work without running to the nearest hardware store. Dad would be the one to go to fix a broken zipper on my skirt. He was the one to take out the sliver in my finger.

I never heard him yell. When I was nearing sixteen and the time for me to soon get my driver’s license, he told me to practice backing the car in our driveway. That was a mistake, for our driveway was narrow and the car was as wide as a boat, backing up by a rather inexperienced driver was not the best idea. As I backed the car, I scraped against the back proch, made of bricks, and then into the flower bed next to the house. The car had a bad scratch the side.  Mom told me I needed to to tell Dad about it.

That was scary, and as I  trudged across the parking lot towards the church and his office, I rehearsed what I would say. It was Saturday evening and he was working on his sermon. I told him what I’d done, he walked over to the house and examined the car. He wasn’t happy, I knew that, but he never raised his voice. He muttered, “I probably shouldn’t have told her to practice here.” I think he said my punishment would be that I couldn’t drive for a week.

Below a couple of photos with the family my dad was so proud of:

I vividly remember one late evening when my then fiance and I were in the car, talking about spiritual things. We talked about how we weren’t sure we were going to heaven. I suggested we go inside and talk to Dad about our questions.

I went into their bedroom and woke Dad up and told him we needed to talk to him. There in our living room, he listened to our questions carefully. Then he opened his Bible and read different passages, and then, together we each prayed. We then were reassured we would be going to heaven.

That was my dad. Patient and kind. Caring more about our questions, than an uninterrupted night’s sleep.

Dad cared about people. His congregation. The people he met. He cared about their relationship with God. He wanted them to know the Good News of Jesus coming to earth–God and yet also man, who lived a perfect life and died and rose again. He was the shepherd of the people God had appointed him to care for.

My dad wasn’t perfect, but he was a good father. Just as the people sitting around our dining table that evening, perhaps you didn’t have the kind of father I had, I hope you can look instead to your Heavenly Father, who can’t be anything but a Good Father.

Sometimes we weren’t given the father we desired but we have a perfect heavenly father. I like this song about a father:

“Lord, I’m so thankful for the dad you gave me. I pray for those who weren’t as fortunate as I, to help them look to You, the best Father ever. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”