My Dad — A Gentle Giant
My Dad — A Gentle Giant
My dad and me. He not only walked me down the aisle, but also performed our wedding ceremony.
My father passed away on December 23, 2009.
I have typed those words about a hundred times, somehow thinking that by the 101st time they might be easier to write.
They are not.
My father's life was a testimony to who he was—a beloved child of God. Over 500 people signed into his guest book, from all walks of life, gathered to honor this gentle giant: a husband, father, son, brother, minister, and friend.
And yet, even as we honored my dad that day, God was the One who was honored and glorified.
Dad would have wanted it no other way.
For two long months while Dad was in the hospital, I prayed, “Thy will be done,” somehow believing that God's will would, of course, be the same as mine.
It wasn't.
My Heavenly Father had a different will than I did, and accepting that has been one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.
My dad taught me to honor and respect God, and in doing so, he taught me how to honor and respect my mom and him as well. I went to him for spiritual wisdom and everyday advice because his faith wasn't something he merely talked about.
He lived it.
Dad showed us what it looked like to be a loving and obedient child of God.
He was also simply fun to be with. He had so many wonderful stories and such insight into God's Word. Through watching his life, I began to understand that living a godly life isn't about what we can gain for ourselves. It is a life poured out for others.
Dad gave without expecting anything in return because he understood something personally about the forgiveness, mercy, and grace of God.
God loved us before we ever knew Him. He gave to us before we had anything to give Him in return.
And because He first loved us, now we love.
These are the kinds of things I miss talking to my dad about.
For 23 years, Dad ministered in the jail. He also began a small, informal church where people could come and worship God. He never took a penny for any of it.
In the last years of his life, Dad lived with tremendous physical pain. Yet on the days he could, he got up and went to work. The phone kept ringing, and he kept answering.
People called with problems.
People called in the middle of the night.
People called when they were hurting, addicted, angry, lost, or simply needed someone to listen.
And Dad listened.
There were times he gave away what he had to help someone else—the car from his driveway or the coat from his back. There were nights when his tired head had barely touched the pillow before someone called needing help. Dad would get up, meet them wherever they were, and take them somewhere safe to sober up. Sometimes that safe place was Mom and Dad's own home.
He spent countless hours on the telephone listening to people's troubles. Sometimes those same people would become angry and even curse at him, yet Dad continued trying to gently lead them back toward the Lord.
He didn't merely preach the Word.
He lived it.
And he gave until it hurt.
Dad ministered to homeless people and to people who owned more homes than they could count. He had an extraordinary ability to sit across from almost anyone and simply meet them where they were.
That was a gift.
And I believe with all my heart that it was a gift from God.
But there is one memory of my father that has stayed especially close to my heart.
When our family first became Christians, I remember walking into his room one day.
There was my dad—a big, strong, powerful man whom, in my younger years before we knew the Lord, I had sometimes feared.
But now he was on his knees.
Praying.
I stood there looking at him, and something settled deeply into my young heart.
If the God we had come to know could bring this strong man to his knees and transform his heart...
then this God must be powerful indeed.
God didn't erase my father's story.
He redeemed it.
He took the ashes of our family and began turning them into something beautiful.
And He transformed the man I once feared into the gentle giant I came to admire, respect, and love so deeply.
Dad's life wasn't perfect.
It was something better.
It was redeemed.
And I had the privilege of calling him my father.
I love you, Dad.
And I miss you
