I know, I know, the moment's passed. We had the opportunity to celebrate Father's Day Sunday, and I hope that you enjoyed your day as much as I enjoyed mine. Dads are special people (I'm biased, I know) and I know that I've been blessed with a great one. Dads are never more special than when you are five years old. At that point, they carry near-mythic powers. I heard this account of a conversation between a group of five year-olds that I believe is instructive on the subject.
"Three five year old boys were discussing which one of their dads was the smartest. The first little boy told his friends, 'My Dad is so smart, he writes a few words on a scrap of paper, calls it a poem, and they give him $100 for it.' Not to be outdone, the second little boy said, 'Oh yeah! My Dad is so smart, he writes a few words on a scrap of paper, calls it a song, and they give him $1,000 for it.' Finally, the pastor's son spoke up: 'My Dad's smarter than anyone of your dads. He writes a few words on a scrap of paper, calls it a sermon, and it takes four guys to take up all the money!'"
In my mind's eye, my Dad will always be 27. He's not anymore, and when I look at him, I can tell it. But when I think of him, he's always a young guy with dark hair (hair! and dark...)who has just come home from another day of hard work at the shipyard. My kids see him at work today and think he gets dirty. I remember when he came home so nasty you could only see the whites of his eyes. I wanted to play baseball, but my total lack of hand-eye coordination made it difficult. I was never the worst kid on the team, but I was never far off either. Regardless of my lack of skill, he was patient, going out in the backyard to practice with me as often as we had the opportunity. I never became a good baseball player (list this as reason #4,312 for why I am a pastor), but I did get better. It's important that every young boy be able to throw, catch, and hit well enough to not wear the dreaded "swings like a girl" label. I managed to avoid that, and it's all thanks to dear old Dad.
Over the years, he remained patient with me. Whether it was at home or at work, he did his best to teach me the manly arts. Some took, some did not. I'd like to think that the area where the lessons were best learned regard the art of the grill (an article for a later date). While I'm not all that handy, nor particularly proficient at anything requiring much skill, I can do enough to get by. Knowing my skill base, the fact that I reached this point at all should be a great testimony to Dad's patient instructions.
I still count on him. He's still patient. Slowly but surely, I'm learning new things. I'm staring down the barrel of 30 and I have three kids of my own. My Dad's still there for me. And though I've aged and he has too, I still see him as the same young man who filled his son's life with so much wonder. If I'm able to inspire in my children half of what he's inspired in me, I'll be able to look back on this life and say that my job was well done. Here's to you, Dad. Enjoy (a few days late) your day.
I think I'm going to find my boy and go play catch. Try not to be too impressed by my display of athleticism, as you take the drive down N. Wintzell.
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