My Father

My first strong memory of my father took place on a sunny spring Saturday afternoon when I was 5.

I was at my best friend’s birthday party and was showing off. No one thought I could bike down the hill on the red bike because it didn’t have any breaks.

Of course I could, I thought to myself, and got on the bike.

Minutes later I was picked off the gravel by some Good Samaritan and taken up to the infirmary at the University where we were playing. My chin was gushing with blood.

My father was there to fix me up. I don’t remember being afraid. I don’t remember crying. I don’t remember much about that day, except the peace of knowing that everything would be ok. My father was taking care of me.

There are very few people in this world that can give you a sense of security and provision without smothering you or making demands of you.

There are very few people in this world that can provide you a sense of peace by just the sound of their voice.

There are very few people in this world who grow before your very eyes in kindness and love and godliness and become the kind of person you hope to be.

My father is that kind of man.

I cannot be with him this father’s day because I am working, which secretly makes him happy and proud! And though I know I cannot sew as well as he can, the truth is that I will live out the rest of my days striving to become like Him in many ways.

There was a competition on the radio this week asking folks to describe their dads in 7 words. Here’s my attempt at it:

Provider

Faithful

Compassionate

Growing

Godly

Wise

Good

When I look at the list, I can’t help but think of my heavenly Father, and for that I am thankful beyond words.

I love my father.