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My Perfect Daddy

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Okay. I admit it. I was a Daddy’s girl. Oh, I loved both my mother and father, but my Daddy was special to me. In my childish eyes, he was perfect. And I was his “little princess”. My father was funny and fun. He sang silly songs like “There was a hole in the ground, the funniest hole you ever did see…” and he made us laugh with the stories he told about his childhood. He was the middle child in a family of 13 children (mostly boys) so he had plenty of stories to share!

My father attended a one room school. (This was another source of many of his stories–oh, the pranks the boys did in that school!) He didn’t go beyond eighth grade. Because of this, my father had great aspirations for me. His dream for me was that I go to law school and become, as he put it, a “woman judge”. This was an amazing thing considering his background and his ultra conservative upbringing, and that this was prior to the feminist movement. I didn’t fulfill that specific goal he had for me, but I did go to college and he cried the day he drove me there. I was the first one in the family to attend college and he was proud and pleased.

One day after I was grown and married and out of the house, my mother approached me with a concern. She shared with me that she often thought my father favored my older sister and she worried that I had been hurt by it. I was stunned!! I always thought I was the favorite!

It is not unusual for children to admire their fathers. Recently I was watching my great granddaughter crawling towards someone when her father happened to walk by. She promptly did an about face and crawled after him instead! I had to smile. What adoration she has for her daddy!

…the glory of children is their father.
–Proverbs 17:6

There is so much more that I could say about my father. He was a good man who loved God, served in the church, and provided for his family. He worked hard as a salesman, but also maintained a small farm with a very large garden and a beautiful orchard. He took pride in his apples and grew the largest peaches I ever did see! I was happy to call him my Daddy.

As I got older, however, I began to realize that maybe my Daddy wasn’t so perfect after all. My father was a jokester, but sometimes he could joke too hard. My father loved playing games and it was serious business with him. He could be too competitive and at times the games would end with tension and arguments. I began to see that he could be too focused on himself and too demanding of others. He had a stubborn streak that could get him into trouble. I don’t share this to belittle him, but rather to point out that there is no perfect Daddy. Or is there?

We recently celebrated Father’s Day. In our Sunday morning worship service, one of the men expressed to the congregation that as hard as he tries to be a good father, he knows that he fails. But he went on to say that he was thankful for the “perfect heavenly Father who can stand in the gap” when he fails.

In the book, Ragman and other cries of faith, the author Walter Wangerin Jr shares this thought written in a letter to his son:

I had hurt you. I sat you down in a chair and left the room. I went out and I myself burst into tears.
It was a terrible, thwarted thing–for me to cry.
I said, “God, how can I know if I’m a good father to this child?” I said, “God, please you be father for him–“
And quietly I understood: in fact, God is your father, and a better one than I.
–from “To Matthew, at His Confirmation

It was Jesus who encouraged His followers to view God as a father. When the disciples asked Jesus to teach them to pray, He instructed them to address God as Our Father, making His Father their Father. He was introducing them to a closer, more intimate relationship with a holy God. But how close can we get to “Our Father, which art in heaven”? Do we dare call him Daddy?

Daddy is such a sweet, childish name for a father. When we get older, we shorten it to Dad. But I called my father Daddy, even as a teen. And sometimes as an adult I would slip and revert to that tender loving term of affection for my father. Daddy. Can our heavenly father be a daddy to us? In Galatians 4:6 we are told that because we are children of God, we can cry out, “Abba, Father!” That word ‘Abba’ is an Aramaic affectionate term for father, the equivalent of papa or daddy. It speaks of a close, intimate relationship between father and child. That is the kind of relationship we can have with God!

My earthly father was my Daddy, but it is God, my heavenly Father, who is my perfect Daddy!

My Daddy and Me

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Chickadees and Me

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There’s something irresistible about a chickadee!

Recently I went out for lunch with some friends. When we were taken to our table a lovely little painting of a black-capped chickadee caught my eye. I ended up sitting directly across from the painting, and I couldn’t stop looking and smiling at that picture. When I found out that the prints on display were done by a local artist and were for sale, I made a quick and unusual decision. I was going to buy it! I say it was unusual because it’s out of character for me. I am not a spender. I am very reticent to splurge on something for myself, especially something unnecessary! But I couldn’t resist that little bird. I know a lot of people who love and enjoy black-capped chickadees, but I have an affinity to them based on a little more than their cuteness.

When I was nine years old my parents moved our family to a different town. That meant I started fourth grade in a new school. It did not go well for me. It’s always difficult being the new student, but it is especially hard when you are looked at as “different”. I have a disability. At that point in my life, my physical challenges caused me to walk awkwardly and run slowly. I’m not sure you could even call it running. As one of the boys let me know when he passed me on the way to the playground and declared, “I walk faster than you run!” Perhaps he was just making an observation, but it didn’t feel that way. I didn’t even really know I was disabled until my classmates mocked me because of it. So most of my recollections from that year are not pleasant. Except for the black-capped chickadee! On the outside ledge of our classroom window, a chickadee built a nest for her family. What joy it was to watch! So when I think back to that difficult year, I also remember that it was then I learned about the cute little bird called a black-capped chickadee.

My husband loved to plant apple trees. Because Paul was a pastor, we lived in a parsonage next to the church. That parsonage is now surrounded by apple trees. Quite often I would see a chickadee or two among the branches of the tree planted in front of the living room picture window. That window faced the church parking lot.

On the day of my husband’s funeral I was gazing out that window watching the hearse arrive with his coffin. To my amazement the tree in front of the window was suddenly filled and fluttering with a multitude of chickadees! I was stunned, surprised and joyful! What a blessing those little birds were to me. I do realize that in the winter chickadees can be known to flock together, but to me, on that day, it was a miracle!

I am not a mystic nor am I superstitious. I do not think that Paul sent those birds to me. It was not a message from him. And perhaps some would say it was just a coincidence, a matter of timing. But this I know: God used those chickadees to bless me, to comfort and encourage me!

God is not limited in how He chooses to speak to someone. He’s used birds before. He fed Elijah with ravens (They actually brought him food!), sent a dove on a mission, and used sparrows as an object lesson. God can use the big and boisterous, and He can use the small and seemingly insignificant. I am thankful for those chickadees. They showed me it was possible to smile when life is difficult and to have joy in the midst of sorrow. Black-capped chickadees will forever remind me of God’s personal, loving interest in me.

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Thanks for the Memories

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It was two years ago that my husband suddenly passed away. Thanksgiving was the last holiday we celebrated together. He died four days later.

Even though it’s been two years, caring people still ask me how I am doing. I usually answer with “I’m good. I’m doing okay.” And I am. But deep down inside there is still that hurt, that loss, that grief. At my recent medical check up, my physician asked me, in regards to my husband’s death, how I was doing and I gave him my standard response, “I’m okay.” And then I added, “But I am still grieving.” He gave me a knowing smile and said, “You always will.” Perhaps not the most encouraging thing to hear, but in a sense it was. It made me realize two important things. First of all, I am normal in my grief. Two years isn’t too long to grieve. And, secondly, I don’t have to get over it! I can go on living, even enjoying my life, and still have a place in my heart for the loss I feel.

Thanksgiving is a little different for me now. I have always enjoyed this holiday squeezed between Halloween and Christmas. It comes with a big meal and the family gathered around the table. But there’s less pressure with this holiday as opposed to Christmas and if celebrated correctly the focus is one of gratitude and appreciation. It lends itself to praising God for His faithfulness. Now, however, Thanksgiving is tinged with a touch of sadness as I recall my last Thanksgiving with Paul. But those memories have become precious to me.

I will never forget the sound of his laughter as we sat at the table with the family, enjoying the meal our children had prepared. How he loved the creamed onions and those garlic stuffed olives!

I remember sharing the lists we had made of what we were thankful for. Most of his list involved family members and we joked with him about including his two sons-in-law on the list! We kept the list he had made as a tangible reminder of his last Thanksgiving with us. Another sweet and special memory from that day is him sitting on the couch with one granddaughter at his side watching a kids’ animated movie while our youngest granddaughter, not quite a year old, played contentedly at his feet. It was the last time he saw them.

I have a cousin whose circumstances are similar to mine. She too was a pastor’s wife who lost her husband suddenly and unexpectedly, and she also still grieves. Recently she posted some pictures from their past on Facebook and she made this comment: “Memories keep getting more valuable.” I know what she means.

I have a treasure trove of memories. From that lingering handshake when we first met to that unsuspecting final kiss, each memory is precious to me. Not all the memories are happy ones, but each one is a treasure. Memories play an active role in grief. They have a dual role, sometimes causing pain and yet giving comfort. Paul impacted my life with his love and leadership, and the memories I have are his imprints on my heart. I am so thankful for them!

As I celebrate Thanksgiving this year and express gratitude for my many blessings, I will also be giving thanks for the memories! Below is the last picture I have of my husband. Taken a month before he passed away, it is my final visual memory of him. But what a happy one it is!

I thank my God upon every remembrance of you.
–Philippians 1:3

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