My absolute earliest memory of my dad would be of him working on cars in our garage in Louisville Kentucky.  I would have been somewhere between 4 and 8 years old.  

My best early childhood friend Brennan and I would play army in the backyard.  We had a ditch where water ran through it and my parents had gotten me tiny plastic soldiers.

 We would create opposing armies, set them up in the ditch, and then take turns throwing small rocks at the toy soldiers until the last man was left standing.  Whoever had the last soldier still standing was the winner.

One year dad cut a big tree down and piled all the branches in the backyard behind the garage.  Brennan and I made a fort in those branches while dad worked in the garage.

That’s a picture of what my relationship with my dad looked like for a lifetime.  He was always present, often preoccupied with work or maybe golf.  He provided safe harbor for me to grow, learn, play, and later in life spread my wings and fly.

As life should be, some of the great moments of my journey into adulthood, were by the side of dad.  Fishing on Kentucky lake, golfing at Pine Oaks Golf Course, frog gigging in SC, vacation trips in the family motor home and yes he came to Austria and picked me up when it was time to come home after 2 ½ years overseas.

Busted but loved…..

At age 15 my best friend and I decided we would take a spin in the family antique one Saturday night as mom and dad weren’t home. No driver’s license, no insurance just youth looking for an adventure.

The next morning dad asked me if I had taken the car out the night before. I lied and said “No dad what are you talking about?”

He proceeded to guide me out to the garage and promptly pointed to a “dark carbon looking discoloration on the garage wall”. He confronted me with the truth which was that no such discoloration had been there the day before. Did I have any idea how it got there?

You see that antique car had blown black smoke out of the muffler when we started it the night before…no way we were clever enough to hide that one.

He taught me one of life’s basic lessons. Never try to pull anything over on him. Especially if it had to do with cars.

Dad was always coming home with specialty cars.

His job was a Service Manager for the corporate office making sure company auto dealerships maintained healthy financial balances and good customer service. That meant he knew all the dealers and their financial situations.

Turns out car dealers love cars and usually have a couple prized ones stored somewhere.

Uncanny thing about that job…when dealers needed money selling those prized possessions was quick revenue. Dad knew it and often came home from a good day’s work with a car he didn’t have before the day started…..and often he’d have it sold before he could even get home to the driveway.

Dad always had my back. 

At age 16, I wrecked 4 cars. He never complained once. Each time the car I drove got downgraded with a replacement. My car insurance must have been through the roof.

I had a car accident late one night after a rock concert while dropping off my girlfriend in her driveway. When someone from our high school pulled up to greet us.  

A discrepancy broke out about the cause of the accident and who was at fault.  I was young and dad negotiated the settlement with the guy’s dad and I never heard from it again.

The final car in high school was an old dark green Chevy Vega. Dad dragged it home from the coal fields of West Viginia. It was filthy and needed an engine.

Dad found an engine and worked out a plan to install it. He and a friend dropped it into the empty shell of that old Vega in 6 hours flat.

That was dad…who drops an engine into an empty shell of a car at 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning and I drove it out at 3 that afternoon? He was an amazing mechanic.

My job was to scrub it clean inside and out. I can still see how filthy the carpet and trunk were, but it was a car and I was thankful to have it.

He once bought a ski boat nobody else could fix. It was an inboard/outboard engine. He dragged it home, dropped the prop into a 50 gallon oil drum filled with water and started whittling down all the options that could be the problem.

Turns out it was a pebble in the fuel line. We had a blast on that boat he picked up for next to nothing comparatively speaking.

My buddy Anthony loved my dad and my dad loved him. He would periodically borrow tools out of dad’s toolbox. It made dad proud and glad to see him raiding the toolbox.

Me, well there was a downside to dad’s gift. I never really learned how to work on cars because dad always had them fixed and or maintained before I could get under the hood.

Once on a plane home from Europe I planned on hiking in Iceland for three days as a stop over.  However, I was heartbroken over a relationship with an Austrian girlfriend that didn’t work out. 

I called dad from the airport in Iceland and told him I wanted to skip the three day trip and just come home.   I heard his good pleasure through the phone when he said “That’s fine I’m spending your money faster than you can make it.  You bought a car today.”

There it was again. Dad was out in front of me.  Making a way for me to return to safe harbor, rest and recharge my soul so that I could kick start life in Tennessee.

Dad was a deacon at a Baptist Church in Louisville Kentucky.   Modeling what it meant to serve the Kingdom of God through the local body of believers.

I later served as a deacon in my 20s.  I guess dad showed me the way and I replicated his model.

Mom used to say he never drank alcohol at company functions.  I believe it.   He wanted to set an example for all to see what a good man looked like.  Not legalism, just good clean living.

Generally speaking, my interpretation of alcohol flows from his example.  I don’t like drinking too much to the point of drunkenness.  Moderation of one or two drinks can be healthy and a way to relax but shouldn’t be abused. Dad showed me that.

By the grace of God I landed in Austria during my 20s as a missionary.  It wasn’t until I had committed to go to the field, raised the money and basically packed my bags that my mom told me they had dedicated me to be a missionary when I was a young child. 

They didn’t pressure me and coach me.  Dad just let God work in my life and gave me the space so that I could hear the Lord’s Voice calling me to the field.

Dad trusted God with his own son….let that sink in.   He committed me into God’s hands for His Service when I was only a child.  As a parent now I understand how much that cost a parent.  

Time lost with a son. 

Time that could never be regained. 

He sacrificed his time with me as an offering to God. 

I can look back on that now and understand what a true sacrifice dad made.

I don’t remember dad ever telling me he loved me, but I never doubted or questioned his love.  It was always present…always authentic.   He showed me what God the Father’s love for me looked like by his actions.

He loved my mom sacrificially to the end. 

Dad was diagnosed with a disease that carried a death sentence.  Amaladosys.   He lasted about 2 years from the point of diagnosis.   

Towards the end he could barely get out of bed at any point during the day.  We didn’t know if he was mentally present as the disease took its toll on him. 

And yet, I can remember visiting mom and dad towards the end of his struggle to live. The one thing he would do every night no matter how hard the day had been was to check that the doors and windows were locked so that mom would be safe.

Here was a man who could hardly move and yet once a day he would make sure mom was safe. 

To me that’s the picture of a man willing to lay his life down for his bride. Dad was always present and loved my mom with an unquenchable love. 

My sisters and I never doubted that mom and dad were happily married.  They demonstrated for us what true love looked like. 

Dad worked hard, paid the bills, took us to church and raised us all in the sight of the Lord. 

He was always present for mom.  If she needed anything he was always on the money ready to serve.

I preached a portion of dad’s funeral.  The one point I made sure to drive home to all who came was that dad set the bar high for how a man loves a woman.

It’s been 18 years since dad left us.   Not a week goes by that my mom doesn’t say something about dad.  She still loves him deeply after all these years.

A friend of mine grew up without a dad .  He told me recently that not having a dad present left him struggling for years to figure out that a man should be the leader of his family. 

I am grateful that dad led well.  He imprinted the picture in my head of what that looks like.  

Dad wasn’t perfect, nobody is.  His generation witnessed first hand the horrors of the Korean War.

I am convinced that the generation returned home somewhat closed to emotional sensitivity  and being in touch with personal feelings.  So I didn’t have conversations with dad about emotions and how to process them in a healthy way.

By God’s Grace digging into my relationship with my dad after he was gone  showed me that it wasn’t too late.

There are days when I think of dad. 

How it would be nice to get his opinion on something pressing. 

Or simply to sit with him and feel the security that only a dad can provide.

Or to see the joy on his face had he lived long enough to see my sons, daughter and step daughters flourishing.

Or to see how good God has been to me with my wife.

I hope when I get to the other side of eternity we can take those walks we missed.  And maybe, just maybe, I will hear him say:

“Son I am proud of you.  I loved you then and I love you now.  I have been waiting for you.”