Live Joyfully

One Sunday night after church, as is our habit, the children went to their rooms to dress immediately for bed. Minutes later, all the children were sitting at the table eagerly devouring their suppers—all the children, that is, except for one. My older daughter, Katie, was missing. As I began to call her, feeling slightly frustrated at the wrinkle she was causing in my schedule, I glanced into the living room. Still in her church clothes, she was sitting on the loveseat next to her dad’s recliner. I listened briefly to catch the thrust of their conversation and was relieved that my husband had been home to answer her theological questions. Within seconds, my relief gave way to a smile and tears came to my eyes as I reminisced about another girl who had sat in a living room next to her father.

How I loved those conversations when I was a girl! Just Dad and I talking, discussing one issue after another—Dad with his coffee, I with my iced tea. Although he always warned against becoming obsessed with such arguments, he patiently explained the opposing views to any theological debate. He didn’t turn me into a theologian, but he taught me to think.

Many times, when my homework was done for the evening, I hurried into the living room, hoping he would be in his chair. I listened enthusiastically as he related experiences from Bible college. I shivered through his narrative of going door-to-door during a Michigan blizzard, and my eyes widened as I imagined a ruffian slamming the door in my face when I tried to witness.

And the advice! I can still hear Dad’s deep voice, “You know, Tam, what you need to do is…” Although Dad did not claim to be a prophet, I was convinced. I’d listen to his predictions and watch in amazement as they came true. Now that I’m older, I recognize that his “predictions” were actually reflections of his discernment.

Requests from my younger children for more milk snapped me back to the present. Again I looked at my daughter earnestly weighing every word her father spoke. I sighed. It would be a late night which meant Monday morning would be rough. Children would be harder to wake up, and we’d begin the week off our schedule. I wanted to insist, “Katie, you need to get ready for bed now. You’ll never get up in the morning.” But the little girl in me interceded on her behalf, “Your dad’s chair is over 1,000 miles away, but wouldn’t you love to be sitting next to it right now, chatting with him?”

Setting my schedule aside, I decided to address the morning when it came. Not for the world would I interrupt them, for I knew how quickly these precious moments with Daddy would fade into cherished memories.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY, DAD! I love you!