Dear Dad,

As we approach another Father’s Day, I wanted to share some thoughts with you as if you were still here, and we were having a conversation.  Writing this is probably much more for me than you, if King Solomon is to be believed, when he wrote:

For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing; 

they have no further reward, and even their name is forgotten.

 Their love, their hate and their jealousy have long since vanished;

never again will they have a part in anything that happens under the sun.

  (Ecclesiastes 9: 5-6)

I guess I need to say some things that didn’t get said when you were still alive.  Maybe I took certain things for granted.  Maybe I assumed you always knew.  Call it fear that you might reject it.  That last fear would not be without some history.  I remember once walking in on you breaking down with emotion as your wife—my mom—lay dying in the same room.  When I approached you and attempted to comfort you with my arm over your shoulders, I was immediately rebuffed.  You quickly dried your eyes, stiffened up, and said you were fine.  I realized then a bit of how God must feel when I don’t let Him love me.

But that is but one memory.  And I now know that no one incident or character trait should ever be allowed to define us, to reduce us to less than we really are.  You were complex, Dad.  Somehow you managed to pastor churches, superintend a family of eight, keep your sense of humor, and keep up your golf game.  As a child, I never feared coming home to find you drunk, abusive, or even inappropriate.  Most of all, I never questioned whether you would be there.  Maybe not in the “I need you right now, Dad, can we hang?” kind of way, but certainly it never entered my mind that you would leave.  And you didn’t.  For that, can I just say thanks?

I never feared you using me as a punching bag verbally or otherwise if you had a bad day at the office.  You were, as dads go, safe.  Even though you, as a natural athlete, could easily have favored the two brothers (also natural athletes) born before me, I never sensed you were disappointed with my more artistic leanings.  In fact, I heard through many other sources later in life that you were quite lavish with praise for my gifts, at least when I was not present.  You did, after all, never want me to take credit for anything God-given. 

I believe your favorite Bible story had to be the parable of the prodigal son.  It reeked with grace—God’s undeserved favor, and that concept literally flavored everything you did and stood for.  You were a champion of grace.  If I could have written your epitaph, it would have simply said: He got it. You got it alright, Dad, and you clearly imparted it to me and our whole family.  I vividly remember a real life sermon you gave me as a teenager. 

When I asked you if I could take my girlfriend to a particular movie across town one Saturday night, you quickly responded ‘no’.  It’s too “adult,” you said (which, by today’s standards, means it’s probably playing in syndication on Nickelodeon).   Anyway, being the typical non-compliant, if not rebellious, teenager I was, what did I do?  I drove straight to that theater with my girlfriend and saw the movie anyway.  I figured what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you.  Unfortunately, when my car wouldn’t start after the show (probably around 11:00 o’clock that night), you were my last option for a ride home. When you asked me on the phone where exactly I was, the proverbial jig was up. 

And it was a lon-n-n-n-ng ride home, I might add, with my date sitting next to me.  Talk about adding insult to injury.  But then came Part One of the “sermon.”  And, Dad, it was the quietest sermon you ever preached. There was no haranguing on the way home, no angry lecture when I got home.  Instead, dead silence.  You simply let my guilt marinate and let me go to bed in that silence.  The next day in church, I remember getting convicted by the Holy Spirit big time and deciding to opt out of going to communion. You being my dad and my pastor, I knew all too well who would be serving me that meal. You, Dad.  The one I had lied to. The one I had resented. The one I had failed to trust.

And you noticed my absence.   At lunch that day, you took me aside and said, “Tim, why didn’t you go to communion today?”  I responded, “How could I, Dad?  I felt so unworthy.”  I’ll never forget your reply: “It’s those very times we need it the most.”  I knew exactly what you meant.  When we feel most weighed down by our guilt, Jesus gives this simple offer: Taste and see that the Lord is good.  And if Jesus could forgive me, so could you.  Message received.

That was you, Dad.  You got it.  And if I thank God for anything this Father’s Day, it is because of your example and tenacity in this truth, that I get it, too.  They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  Well, if this was what you had hoped for—that your children and your children’s children would understand the grace of God, then I believe you have a big stack of happy apples right underneath you.  To honor you today, may I never take God’s grace for granted and never forget the seeds you planted in my life.  I love you, Dad.  Happy Father’s Day...’til we meet again.                                                                                                                                                                                                          

                                                                                                                       tad