Papa was a rollin' stone

Growing up with a Canadian father only means two things for certain. First, you will have to rely on someone else to teach you the proper way to pronounce words like garage, municipal and diaper. Secondly, you will watch a lot of ice hockey on TV. The other things, like performing an opera in the vegetable garden, raising 150 chickens in a suburban neighborhood and never having a bedtime, are not so much about having a Canadian father as they are about having my Canadian father.

My father is a wonderful man. He is gifted and fun and intelligent. Open to new ideas, my Dad has always been an adventurer, willing to go and try and dare. He raised his daughters to be upright and fair, but not shrinking violets.

My Dad is a psychologist. He is a patient listener and a consistently caring man, so it is no surprise that I can vividly remember the first time I ever saw my father lose his temper. It was, and is, a rare occurrence. Back in 1977, Dad had a red Honda Civic hatchback. One afternoon, as we drove along on a road close to home, we hit a big pothole, and the hubcap flew off and rolled away. Dad pulled the car to the side of the road (it was not a busy road), and we jumped out to hunt for our missing wheel cover. After hunting on the embankment for less than a minute, a car came flying down the road going far faster than the speed limit. Without any time to react, the driver saw my 10 year old presence on the side of the road at the exact moment he hit the pothole, and he lost control of his car, swerving and squealing his tires. The car just barely missed hitting me, and it probably would have if I hadn’t ran up into a stranger’s yard to save my skin.

When the car came to a stop, we saw a teenage boy, white from fear, in the driver’s seat. I stood there, my own heart beating rapidly too, and watched my father walk to the car, reach his hand in, grab the young man by the shirt, and, yes, pull the driver out of the car through the window. My Dad did not hit him or anything, but in a matter of seconds, this young man knew just how much ice hockey my dad watched AND how important I was to my father.

I laugh at the story now, but one thing is very true. Besides the two times (another story for another day) he almost assaulted other people, my father was intentional about modeling how to live. I grew up knowing I was important, I was heard, and I was always worth his time and energy. As a matter of fact, I have often told my father that the ways that he loved me pointed me to a healthy and clear understanding of how God loves me.

On this post-Father’s Day day, it might be a good idea to recognize how profoundly our fathers shaped our understanding of God. On a level that we may not even understand, our dads gave us clues about a Heavenly Father. If your dad was withholding with his praise and affection, you may view God as the Great Task Master in the Sky. If your dad traveled for business all the time, perhaps you see God as a distant, never-available type with a pen protector in his chest pocket. If your dad was overly permissive, never giving you healthy boundaries to help you feel safe, you may wonder if God even cares at all or rebel against any of His guidelines that help us live in peace.

So, as your cleaning the grill today after feeding your dad yesterday, take a second to honestly reflect on your father - not with the intent to criticize – but in order to better understand why you respond to God the way you do.

Just to clear things up a little, Jesus said, “Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!"

In other words, no matter how your father loved you – well or badly – how much more God wants for you! How he longs to provide you with good! He would really love to prove your misconceptions about Him wrong, and I dare you to let Him.

And, to Fred: Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thank you for being an intentional father. Thank you for vegetable garden operas that taught me to be free and not to be concerned if the neighbors thought I was crazy. Thank you for your pursuing and tenacious love. The shirt I gave you this year does not come close to repaying the gift you have given me.