My First Picture of God

On June 9th, 1980 my dad held Mom’s hand as she bore down in pain and brought me into this world. With joy the nurse thrust me into his arms.

“It’s a girl!”

Mom beamed. Dad gulped.

Later that day he drove home, alone, to check on things at the house. Halfway home he pulled to the side of the road. Overcome.

“Help me, God!” Tears streamed down the weathered cheeks of this Vietnam vet. The man in charge who always knew what to do was, for the first time, at a loss.  With hands clenched on the steering wheel and head leaned forward in prayer,

“I don’t know what to do with a girl!”

He’d only had a brother and –until now — only had a son.  He knew bootcamp and work ethic and how to throw a curve ball and rebuild an engine.  But what, dear God, was one supposed to do with a girl?

At some point someone told him, “Just love her.”

So he did.

And, in doing so, he gave me a picture of God.

It’s no mistake God has chosen the name Father for Himself. And it is no mistake He has given us earthly fathers, whose primary responsibility is to show us what God is like until we are old enough to see Him for ourselves. It is a gradual shift from gazing upon our earthly daddy to gazing upon our heavenly Daddy, and certainly not without its share of mistakes and misconceptions along the way. Our family was no different. My dad was not perfect, but he did this, and my first picture of God looked like this:

• As a newborn, he let me sleep on His chest for hours.  I’m sure there were many important things to be done but none as important as this. God the Father never hurries us from His presence.
• As a toddler, Dad let me take naps with him. I could never fall asleep as fast at him, so I’d lie there and listen to him breathe, trying so hard to make my own short breaths line up with his long ones. If I could just breathe with him. As I rest in God’s presence I lie still, quiet. Can I somehow slow my hurried pace and short quick breaths to move in step with His majestic ones? I still try.
• As a preschooler, Dad ran a hundred miles behind my pink two-wheel bike, along the icy driveway on Christmas afternoon. He held on tight so I could learn, never letting me crash, never letting me go. God faithfully holds me tight as I venture out in faith — in ministry, writing, speaking. He knows I’m wobbly and scared, but He never lets me go.
• As a kid, Dad patiently helped me to overcome my fears. I sobbed in fear before the Presidential Physical Fitness test, the eight-year-old homeschool kid out on the track with the public junior high kids. He wouldn’t let me off the hook, made me do it. Cheered the whole time and scooped me up in congratulations when I finished the mile, my face beaming with pride. God sticks me to courage, forces me to faith, though I scream crying that I cannot, that I’m too small or weak or scared. He insists, cheers, empowers, then scoops me up in joy when I finish — and succeed.
• As a teenager, Dad turned away a lot of boys. He was ruthless. I cried. Shouted. “Why?! Don’t you trust me?!”  He did trust me. The boys he didn’t. Now, so glad. God, at times, lovingly responds to my prayers with a firm but gentle, “No.” I cry, shout sometimes, but He remains. Later I look back and thank. He knew.
• As an adult, Dad continues to do whatever he can to help me succeed in life. He watches my kids, gives wisdom, prays for me, fixes stuff around the house. Whenever I need him, he’s there. God continues to abide with me at all times. Always there, sustaining me in every way to see me succeed in this life of faith.

Dad, you might not have known what you were doing but thanks for painting my first picture of God.

You did a great job.

Happy Father’s Day.

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No dad is perfect, but perhaps there are ways that your dad, or dad-like figure, showed you glimpses of our Heavenly Father? What glimpses are you grateful for today?

{More on my dad: What Love Looks Like and Happy Birthday, Dad.}