My Dad

He was a bayou-swimming, forest-running, mischief-making youngster. Farmer. Cowboy. Bull-rider. Basketball player. Paratrooper. Soldier. Telegrapher. Policeman. Electrician. Welder. Construction foreman. Mason. Carpenter. Rattlesnake hunter. Arrowhead finder. Desert walker. Pastor. Teacher. Preacher. Missionary. Friend. Husband. Father.

He collected Lionel trains, stamps, date-nails, and sports cards.

He was always up for a fight--especially (in later years) if the cause was just.

He stood up for the little guy, the outcast, the hopeless case, the hardcase. He took in hippies and bikers and thugs, drug dealers and drunks.

He was scared of nothing. Discomfort didn't dissuade him. Hardship didn't phase him. Pain didn't give him pause. When he knew he was right, he went forward no matter the cost.

He pastored four churches that no one wanted, fought hard to keep them open and alive, and watched them thrive under the power of the Holy Spirit. He went to Russia three times, raising hundreds of thousands of dollars to send to the work while the doors were open. He won hundreds of people to the Lord. He saw miracles happen in the blink of an eye. He saw demons flee at the name of Jesus. He saw the dead raised back to life by the power of God.

He exposed sin and stood for righteousness. He'd tell you the truth, even if it hurt him to do it. He had great patience with weakness, but no time for stupidity and self-righteousness. He was always in charge, always in the lead, always at the forefront of any crusade or quest, and people followed him.

Most of all, and most importantly, he was a man of God. I can remember the day he was saved, a miserable life transformed by the saving grace of Jesus Christ, and every day after that was a day lived in the Spirit. He studied his Bible so much, marking the things that spoke to him, learning from the living Word of God, that some of the pages in that Bible are unreadable today. He preached the Word and ministered in power. He was guided by the truth, and guided others with it.

As a father, he loved me. He prayed for me. He taught me and tutored me and mentored me. He spanked me when it was needed (and maybe a few times that it wasn't needed, but that may have been to compensate for all the ones I needed and didn't get), but he never abused me. He hugged me and told me how much he loved me, how proud he was of me. When I needed him, he was my fiercest defender, my staunchest ally, my strongest support. When I needed to be pushed a little harder to do what was right, he always knew just the amount of pressure to apply. He told me about Jesus, and without him, I would be lost and dying and on my way to hell.

He wasn't a perfect man, for there was only one who was perfect. He had flaws and failings (none of which are your business). But he was a faithful man--faithful to his God, his family, his calling. He never let up, not for a minute, until the day he closed his eyes on this life and stepped into the presence of the Lord.

There are days that I miss him, days when I long for one more earthly conversation, one more prayer, one more moment with my Dad. There are questions I'd like to ask. Counsel I'd like to receive. I'd like to watch Lonesome Dove with him one more time. What I wouldn't give to have my Dad wrap his arms around me in the hard times and say, "Son, God is faithful, and I know everything's gonna be alright!" But I also know that heaven is a wonderful place, and he wouldn't trade eternal life for this life for anything! Because of who Dad was, because he knew Jesus Christ as his personal savior--and made sure I did too--I know that our parting is only temporary. Because one of these days, the trumpet will sound, and Dad shall be raised to immortality, and I shall meet him again in the presence of the Lord.

But until then, I'll be the man he raised me to be.

Happy Father's Day!