Father’s Day

June 19, 2018

A Father’s Secret Language

What if God had a secret language that he used just with you? Not a universal message that he gave to the whole world, but a direct communication intended only for you?

Maybe you believe that God so loves the world. But have you grasped the audacious idea that he specifically loves you?

They say that babies learn to recognize voices and even melodies in utero. Daniel and I didn’t exactly play our baby Mozart before he was born, but we did start communicating with our little guy almost right away. I talked to him, hand on my belly, all the way to and from work—singing songs, praying over him, telling him things he should know about the big world he was about to enter. Daniel had a special wordless language that he used to talk to our baby—whistling, making clicking sounds with his tongue, playing the guitar for him.

This was mostly for us—I don’t think of either of us was really convinced our communication was getting through the amniotic fluid. But to our surprise, from his first day out of the womb, Graham responded to our voices. Whenever Daniel started talking, Graham would turn his head toward him—even when he was eating (which was, hands down, his favorite pastime). Now when he hears his dad whistling or making any number of silly sounds, he invariably grins and squeals and flails his arms around. They have a special bond that only the two of them share.

If God describes himself as our Father, then surely he must feel the same way about his children. And I have to wonder . . . what if our Father God has a special language for each of his children that he uses to communicate his love?

Maybe you haven’t always felt the love of an earthly father, and frankly you’re not quite sure about the love of God. Maybe it’s easier to picture God with a scowl on his face or disappointment creased into his forehead.

If that’s where you find yourself this Father’s Day, I’d like to offer another image: that of a heavenly Father who has designed a specific language just for you.

Maybe he painted that sunset right as you stepped outside so he could capture your heart with its beauty.
Maybe he prompted a friend to call you exactly when you needed someone to talk to.
Maybe he orchestrated that song specifically for you, because he knew it would speak to the depths of your soul.
Maybe he brought words from Scripture in front of your eyes at precisely the moment you needed them.
Maybe he created a perfectly ripe strawberry with you in mind.

Can you hear him? Your Father is whispering “I love you” at every turn.

***

The Lord your God is living among you.
He is a mighty savior.
He will take delight in you with gladness.
With his love, he will calm all your fears.
He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.
Zephaniah 3:17

June 16, 2017

A Father’s Tender Love

Mama Robin has been building a nest in the pine tree beside our driveway again. For weeks, Daniel and I watched as she tirelessly collected twigs and string and who-knows-what-else to line her nest. One warm evening in April, as Daniel played his guitar on the front stoop, I was delighted to see her flitting away in search of the juiciest worms to feed to the little heads peering over the edge.

It felt like spring. Like hope. Like new life.

Then one windy May afternoon, not long after another doctor’s appointment where they poked and prodded and scanned me and the little life inside me, I pulled into the driveway to a horrifying sight. One of those tiny baby robins lay on the driveway, motionless. The wind had tossed it out of the nest before it was ready to fly.

Even on a good day, a sight like this would be enough to make me teary. But in this agonizing season of waiting to find out what will happen to our own precious baby, it was almost enough to undo me. I pulled into the garage as quickly as I could and tried desperately to think of something else—anything else.

This, I might add, is the real danger of being an English major. It’s not the common warning people gave me when I was in college: that I’d never get a real job and would end up perpetually waiting tables or otherwise underemployed. As it turns out, the more pressing problem is that I see everything in my life through the lens of literary analysis. Case in point: Surely this is foreshadowing! Or at the very least, symbolism! Something dreadful is going to happen in the next chapter, and this is how I’m being prepared for it! My life might as well be a suspense novel, for all the clues and meaning I infuse into the smallest scenarios.

The next morning I went outside, dreading the prospect of seeing the tiny bird again. But to my surprise, the driveway was clear.

“Daniel . . . was that you?” I asked.

Sure enough, he knew the sight would break me into a thousand pieces, so when I was otherwise occupied, he quietly removed all traces of the little bird. I hugged him tight, grateful for his tenderness.

“This wasn’t the first time,” he admitted.

Apparently he’d found a similar scene on several other occasions and had removed the evidence so I wouldn’t have to register the trauma.

The English major in me swooned. Because in that moment I realized I wasn’t living in a suspense novel; I was living in a love story. Sure, it’s not what you’d expect in a typical romantic comedy, and it’s not always what I imagined love would look like when we said our fresh-eyed vows almost six years ago. But it’s real. Because sometimes love means scraping away a bird carcass to protect the one you love.

In that moment, I felt double love for this man—for the husband he is and the dad he’s going to be. Our child hasn’t been born yet, but already he has the tenderness of a father. And in his eyes I see a reflection of the tenderhearted love of the Father himself.

Not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.
Matthew 10:19-31

We don’t know what life holds for this baby of ours. But I know for certain that this child is loved and protected by the love of two fathers: an earthly father and a heavenly one. And when the winds of life blow, this child will not fall without those fatherly arms stretched wide to catch him.

June 17, 2016

When the Judge Is Your Dad

dad and me For some people, Father’s Day means cookouts and ties and cards with cheesy dad jokes. But for other people, Father’s Day is a paper cut to the heart . . . a reminder of someone who was absent or distant or harsh or unavailable.

In Scripture, one of the most prominent metaphors for God is as a Father. But if your father wasn’t someone who loved you and delighted in you and cherished you and sacrificed for you, how can you believe in a heavenly Father who shows that kind of love to his children?

I’m grateful for a dad and a mom who have faithfully reflected God’s love to me since they laid eyes on my scrunched-up, purplish face in Edward Hospital all those years ago. But recently I experienced a new angle of a father’s love . . . one that I hope will give you a glimpse of the Father-love of God, whether you had a good dad or not.

Judge Dad

My dad became a judge recently, and when the whole family was in town, he took us to the courthouse on a Saturday morning so we could see where he worked. As I sat at the elevated judge’s bench overlooking the witness stand and jury box, I felt the weight of this position—the honor of it, but also the responsibility. In this role, Dad carries the task of faithfully upholding the law, of determining the fates and futures of those who walk through the doors. The judge’s robe, it turns out, is a heavy one.

Once we’d visited the courthouse, Dad invited us to see his chambers. After going through various layers of airport-level security, we headed to the bowels of the courthouse, into his judge’s chambers. As I entered the room, I was struck by the stately mahogany desk and the shelves lined with regal-looking law books. My mind scrambled to reconcile the dad who plays backyard basketball and tells fourth-grade-boy jokes with the dad who is now referred to as “Your Honor.”

As we were about to leave his chambers to head home, a familiar combination of white and pink on Dad’s credenza caught my eye. It looks like . . . no, it can’t be. But sure enough, it was the familiar cover of my memoir. Amid all the leather-bound legal books and important case files was a copy of his daughter’s book—about blind dating, of all things. It was there on the edge of his table along with printouts of a few of my blog posts, available for perusal by anyone who entered his chambers.

As the rest of my family filed out, I stood with my feet nailed to the ground, gripped by the love of a judge with the heart of a dad.

And in that moment, awash with my father’s love, I had a vision of another Judge, another Dad.

Behind the Curtain

In the Old Testament, the Holy of Holies was the sacred place in the Temple where God dwelled. It was a place so holy that only the high priest was allowed to enter—and if he entered at the wrong time or in the wrong way, he would be struck dead.

Most of us can grasp the idea of a holy God—a powerful judge who inspires awe. And he is certainly that. But that moment in my dad’s chambers, I got a glimpse of a God who not only is holy and powerful but also has photos of his children plastered all over the walls.

Go ahead—peek behind the curtain of the Holy of Holies and look around. See on the wall there? It’s a framed picture of you, hanging there for everyone to see. And over on the refrigerator . . . there’s the picture you drew for him—the one you crumbled up and threw away but he salvaged from the trash. And the gift you gave him—the one you thought was so meager and unworthy? It’s sitting prominently on his shelf so whenever his friends come in, he can tell them all about it.

As a beloved child, you have access to the Judge. And this isn’t just a distant, holy God; he’s a Father who loves you and delights in you and is proud of you. He’s a Father who invites you into the sacred space of the Holy of Holies, into his very presence—a place you would never have the right to go without that privileged relationship.

This Father’s Day, regardless of what your earthly father is like, I want you to know that you have a Father who loves you unconditionally, sacrificially, with abandon. Even as you tremble to approach the bench, remember that the judge is also your Father. And that your picture is hanging on his wall.

June 11, 2014

Dear Dad: A Non-Apology Letter

I heard the sickening scraping sound before I saw it. A piece of wood trim that had been firmly attached to the garage just moments before. I was only 16, my license shiny and new in my wallet. Still, I knew better, Dad. And I should be sorry for peeling out of the garage and ripping off a chunk of the wall. But I’m not.

Do you remember that day as clearly as I do? Mom was out of town, and you let me drive her car while she was gone. It was a big deal—the first time I got to drive myself to school instead of taking the bus. I was well aware that this was a privilege, and one that could be easily revoked. But I heard the school bus coming, and I knew that if I didn’t hurry, I’d be stuck behind the bus all the way there.

So with single-minded focus, I backed the car out of the driveway, eyes on the rearview mirror, scanning for the bus. That’s when I heard it. First the scraping, then the thunk. The wooden trim around the door was no match for the side of the car. But there was no time to assess the damage. I kept driving.

I should be sorry about the car, about the garage door you had to fix, about my lack of responsibility. But I’m not. Because that evening, when I told you what I’d done (which you’d already pieced together), you played for me notes of grace that have echoed in my ears ever since. You didn’t let me off the hook—as I recall, we spent the evening together with a hammer, a few nails, and a bucket of paint. And later that night, I had a confessional phone call to make to Mom.

But in that moment you showed me what forgiveness looks like: you loved me just the same in spite of what I’d done, and then you went to work doing the cleanup right alongside me.

I wasn’t sorry several months later, either, when I won the safe driver contest at that ceremony at the fancy hotel. Remember how I looked over at you, wide eyed, when they announced my name? I knew there was no way I deserved it. But you just winked at me, nudging me to go up and accept the award.

Can you believe it’s been almost exactly twenty years since the infamous garage door incident? If I’d backed out the way you taught me, I wouldn’t remember that moment all these years later. So no, I’m not sorry, because right then I knew that whenever I crashed again at some point in the future—whether behind the wheel of a car or otherwise—I could come to you with the broken pieces.

Some days when I’m back home visiting you and Mom, I walk past the same garage door, with the repainted trim, and I marvel that it’s intact again. To anyone else, it probably looks as if nothing ever happened. But I’ll never forget the ugly squeals and scrapes I heard that day, followed by the echoes of pounding grace.

June 17, 2013

The Gift of Presence

When I was fifteen, I decided to exchange my gymnastics leotard for a basketball jersey. There was just one little problem (and I do mean little): I was barely four foot eleven, with shoes on.

I practiced hard that season, but whenever game time came, I warmed the bench. With the rare exception of a major blowout, my sub-five-foot frame didn’t see any action on the court the moment the game clock started.

But my dad . . . my dad was at every game. Every. Single. Game. He’d leave work early and sit up in the bleachers with my mom, still in his dress shirt and tie. All so he could watch me warm the bench.

When I came out of the locker room with the team before each game, I’d find him in his usual spot—left side, near the back—and he’d flash our family’s secret signal, which, roughly translated, meant, “Hey, I see you. I’m here.”

He was there, even though we all knew I wouldn’t be out there shooting or dribbling or passing or doing any of the other things he’d been helping me with in our hoop out back.

And he was there after each game for his trademark “postgame talk” when I was feeling discouraged after yet another four quarters of not even taking off my warm-up jacket.

“We’ll keep practicing,” he told me. “Just wait—you’re going to be a starter one of these days.”

***

Right around that time, I found myself plunged into the waters of teenage awkwardness, and along the way, I started losing track of how to connect with my dad. I was self-conscious in my own skin, clumsy about hugging him, so we mostly exchanged fist bumps instead. I didn’t quite know how to talk to him about the things that made up my world either—friend drama, boys, how I was trying to sludge through this new space to figure out who I was and where I fit in. How could we show love to each other surrounded by so much awkward?

But Dad found a way. I’m sure I didn’t realize what was happening back then, but each time he showed up, each time he watched me sit the bench, he was giving me a rare gift: the gift of presence. He was there, and there said, “I love you.”

***

All through the next summer, Dad coached me as I relearned my basketball shot. It was brutal at first, but he was right—it paid off. My senior year, when they announced the starting lineup for my team, there was a new jersey out on the court—number ten, measuring in at barely five feet tall. When they called my name, I ran out onto there, shoes squeaking on the hardwood, my eyes scanning the stands for one face.

He was there, of course. I flashed Dad the trademark family signal and grinned to myself. I’d been wishing for this moment for a long time, but when it arrived, I realized that what I’d needed most had been there all along.

“The greatest gift is a portion of thyself.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sometimes love is complicated, multilayered. Sometimes it means having deep talks and hashing everything out. But other times love is simple. Sometimes love is just showing up.

So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks for teaching me how to shoot a basketball. Thanks for watching all my games. Most of all, thanks for always showing up. (And by the way, I didn’t get you anything for Father’s Day, so please consider this your gift.)