Father’s Day From A Prodigal’s Perspective

Today I propose we do a little what if-ing. Let’s “what-if?” the story that contains the prodigal son. It pretty much leaves us with some open-ended questions, I know.

Did Dad ever want to wring the son’s neck? Ever?

Where was Mom in all this?

What happened six weeks or six months later?

Did the kid suffer a relapse?

Questions.

So…let’s pretend.

Imagine if Father’s Day fell a week following the prodigal son’s return. No, check that. Let’s pretend it occurred about six or seven months later. On that morning, the father—let’s call him Chanan (Hebrew for gracious)—awakens from a dreamless sleep and rubs his eyes so as to roust them from their hours of inertia. It is still dark, but an oil lamp casts a coppery glow inside the master’s bedroom, and he looks at the pleasing, sleeping form of his wife—oh, may as well: Chana. Hannah. Grace. Continue reading Father’s Day From A Prodigal’s Perspective

Mind If I Brag?

My bragging rights persist, so please indulge me with this repost. It still rings true today. I love you, Dad. You’ll never know what the words “I’m proud of you” do to this heart of mine. I’m very proud to be your son.

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My Dad can beat up your Dad.

Today is Father’s Day and I am reflecting on my one true example of fatherhood and, I can tell you, he’s got your Dad beat by a mile. Okay, so he only took me to White Sox games in the 60’s when they were awful instead of Cubs games as I was growing up on the south side of Chicago. And I never remember them winning. Not once. But I complained long enough that he took me to the north side one time to visit Wrigley Field when Fergie Jenkins was pitching.

And yes, the Cubbies won. 4-2. See? It made an impact on me. Dad did that.

Sure, it’s true that he worked for the phone company and they kept transferring him in the middle of the school year, making it hard to make new friends and easier as time went by to say bye to old friends. So what if I learned over time not to get too close to people. I did, in fact, learn to make friends quickly and my penchant for cave-dwelling has turned me on to spending long hours shut away with God (a ‘plus’ in ministry) and learning though other friends may come and go, He will never leave me nor forsake me.

Yeah, my stinking memory still holds onto the ONE time he looked so disappointed in me after a little league game where I had muffed a pop fly and caused us to lose a big game, amid all the other times he praised me in all things big and small and taught me the art of encouragement. Sorry, Dad. I did get over that a long time ago, and the fact of the matter is, I was kind of a goof at baseball. Thanks for all those years of leaving work early to pick me up from basketball practice and for rarely missing any of my games. You rock.

I say again, my Dad can beat up your Dad.

He’s a study in meekness and gentleness. He’s one of the kindest men you will ever meet. Many have been the times I’ve heard it said of my Dad that “he’s so cute.” Yeah, he kinda is. He’s just a short man but he stands head and shoulders above most. He’s also the youngest looking 81 year old you’ll ever know. And he doesn’t drive like an old man, which is always nice. ‘Tis true he has more hair than I do and in MUCH better shape but the one thing about my Dad that I can honestly say I have never known him to do is make fun of anyone. You won’t hear put-downs from his mouth. He builds up. He doesn’t tear down. And I have never, ever felt degraded by him.

Thanks, Dad. You rock.

And another thing. This man I am talking about? This man who is my Dad? Well sir, I’ve never seen a man love a woman like he loved my Mom. Throughout their almost fifty years together, right up to her passing from a three-month battle with cancer, he put her first every time. Not before God, mind you, but her needs always came before his own. The man’s a saint, I tell you.

There’s a whole litany of things I could say to honor my Dad but all of them would fall way short of the one thing that has stood out in my memory above all others. Growing up in my house, you always knew where Dad would be before the sun rose on his day: at the breakfast table with an open Bible and bowed head. His life has always been a worship to His Lord. And because of his devotion, his life has the mark of integrity on it. Before there was PromiseKeepers, he was the mold for what a promise-keeper should look like. I never knew him to leer at another woman or cheat God with the tithe or shirk his work responsibilities. They don’t make ’em like Dad anymore.

My Dad can beat the tar out of yours.

Dad was a great provider, a committed husband, a kind father and he showed me it’s never out of place for a grown man to cry, indeed it is quite masculine—all these things, yes, but there will never be a more bold statement over his life than that sweet head bowed in a fixed amen to the Holy Book that shapes every moment of his life.

All which has me asking: How?

He didn’t grow up in a Christian home. He never received much in the way of love from his Dad or stepmom, and yet he filled my sisters’ and my life with it in abundance. Man, it just leaves me shaking my head. Here’s to you, Dad, with love. Thank you for being Jesus to me with skin on.

Sylvester Stallone still has one more Rocky to write: YOU are the Rocky Balboa of Dads.

Parenting (and Childhood) Is For The Dogs

I’m going back through my prayer journals and just tonight I found a gem. Seems I was crying out to God for our son (ad nauseum) a year and a half ago, asking our Father to have and show mercy in his life. On the particular morning I was scribing, Graham had spent considerable time two nights prior, screaming that God was a “nowhere God, not real, and never speaks—at least not to me.”

Turns out, while he was ranting and indicting God for lack of evidence, some children in a wholly different household were praying with tears that the Lord “would get someone to help us get our dog back.” These children had lost their puppy, a mini Doberman, and were sorrowful beyond consolation. They prayed by their bedside that God would show up for them and, in typical God fashion, the Father was already answering their prayer through the unlikely means of a boy who was sick to death of a God who was “nowhere.”

The next day, my son finds a dog roaming our neighborhood and calls the number on the tag. The owners are elated. They tell their kids and Graham can hear their screams of delight in the background. “We’ll come get it right away!” they said. “Thank you and God bless you!” they said, and told him a reward was coming his way. Shortly afterward, a car came down the main street of our subdivision and Graham senses its riders, unknown to him, were the happy family coming for their missing dog.

“Are you the ones I just talked to on the phone?” he asked.

“Why, yes! Yes we are!” They seemed elated. And why not? Their dog, once lost, now was found. The kids would be jubilant!

But something didn’t set right with Graham. There was a sense, a subtle quake, his internal moral compass jerking to and resting upon true north. Then, yellow flags, turning fiery red. “That’s not your dog,” he spoke flatly.

“Uh, sure it is,” the passenger said, pulling the dog into the back seat by its chain. The dog, meanwhile, wasn’t exactly thrilled about going for a ride. Where were the kids? Graham thought. Why wasn’t the dog excited to see its masters?

The couple fabricated some story, thanked Graham for being a good citizen and drove away with the dog. Amazingly, he saw them drive on down the road and pull into the driveway of one of the neighborhood homes! When the real owners drove up, Graham told them what had happened, but not to worry. He knew where their puppy was and helped them get it. That’s when he found out he was the answer to some little tykes’ prayers. Think of it, at the very moment Graham was calling God out, complaining that he’d never witnessed Him do anything miraculous, some youngsters were asking God to be gracious to them and send someone to “help” them find their pet. And an insolent, skeptical, critical teenage boy was the one He commissioned. Talk about Win-Win! These children got their Fido back and the Lord trumped a crestfallen boy’s doubtings. Truthfully, far more than just that happened: God kept my son from falling a long way from mercy and grace. There were two rescues that evening.

Take heart, struggling parent. God will honor all your faithful prayers for your prodigals or for the one-step-away-froms, and He will get their attention. Sometimes he uses bushes, sometimes whales, sometimes Nathans, sometimes donkeys. And sometimes He might even resort to using a lost puppy.

Someone who obviously knew a little about the science of parenting, has these wise words to share:

“Every autumn I have a spate of letters from fond parents, teachers, guardians, and monitors, appealing to me to follow up on such and such a youngster who is away from home at college for the first time, and who has to be hunted, followed, shadowed, intercepted and driven to Christian meetings. I have scarcely ever known this desperate technique to work. I understand the panic of parents and guardians, but it is too late then to try high pressure tactics. Prayer, example and precept, in that order, are the means of bringing up children and young folk in the faith. Nor will high pressure tactics and brainwashing techniques avail when young folk have gone off on their own. Some young folk, alas, will have their fling and sow their wild oats, and come at last to heel, sadly, like the prodigal son.

It is where Christians pathetically put their trust in external techniques and artificial stratagems that young folk go astray. Nothing takes the place of the realism of holy living and secret wrestling before God in prayer for our youngsters. We must commit them to God so utterly that we dare not interfere or tamper with their precious souls.”

(William Still, late Pastor of Gilcomston South Church, Aberdeen, Scotland)

God bless, and with all due respect, parenting isn’t just for cowards. Sometimes it can just plain be for the dogs. And that’s a good thing…