I was sobbing. I was crumpled
on my twin bed sobbing, and shaking, tears pouring down my face, and gasping
for breath. Cheeks blotchy. Nose running. I couldn’t see.
Moments before we’d all stood
around the kitchen counter. My sister and I fresh home on college break. My
brothers shoving each other. My little sis tossing her blonde hair and
giggling. Mom and Dad smiling. And a new-comer. He’d followed us (or more
specifically, my sister) home from college and there was love in the air. And
really, we were all in love with love
that break.
The mail came. With it, a
grade from a correspondence course I’d taken. I opened it knowing it wasn’t
going to be good. The class had been impossible. A disconnect of gigantic
proportions in content, teacher, and student. That’s all I’m going to let
myself say.
D-
It hit me like a slap in the
face. I’d never come close to that grade before. Ever. All that hard work. Hard
work. And this would ruin my GPA. It would
ruin my reputation at school. I was embarrassed. I was devastated. Unraveled.
If I couldn’t handle a simple, ole’ course from some dumb university what good
was I anyway? A failure. I’d failed everyone. I’d failed God. My parents. My
school…I could barely see straight as I stumbled to my room. My life was ending
just as my sister’s was taking off.
My door creaked a bit as Dad
strode in. Sat down close on my flowered bedspread, and looked straight at me.
Unraveled, pimpled, greasy-haired, blotchy, sobbing me. Then he pulled me into
those strong arms, broad shoulders, and scent of Stetson, and just held me. Long moments passed. The
sobbing passed. Then he said three things.
 |
| Look! I still graduated! |
I love you. I’m proud of you. God is in
control.
What is unusual about this
memory is there is only one. Only one horrific grade. Only once my Dad sat down
on my bed and held me close like that. But what is not unusual is that the disappointments have kept coming. The
frustration with my performance in life. The unraveling. The failure. The keen
discouragement. These happen to us throughout life, and most often our Dads are
not there. There is no knock on the door and strong embrace. Perhaps because they’ve
passed from the scene. Perhaps they were never on the scene to begin with.
Perhaps we wish they weren’t.
That’s ok.
Because the best thing my Dad
taught me was not that he would always be there for me. The best thing was that
He modeled the character of my God who
always is. There is a Father who
never leaves or forsakes. Who is there in the secret disappointments in life,
and the wide-open, public ones. Every one
of them. He is there when the relationship crumbles. When the job falls
through. When the miscarriage happens. Again. When the children get sick. Again.
When we sit alone and wish we were in a crowd. When we sit in a crowd and wish
we were alone. When we wish life would just speed
up already or slow down for
cryin’ out loud. When those we depend on most give way under the weight of that
dependence. Our Heavenly Father is there.
One who has taken whole passages of His book to declare His love for me, His
pleasure with me, and His control over me. One who says-
I love you. I’m pleased with
you. I’m in control.
I don’t know what your
Father’s Day will be like. Perhaps your memories of Dad are far worse or better
than mine. And I don’t know the discouragements you face today. They are likely
much more serious than a bad grade. But I do know the Heavenly Father. I know His
Words are truth. I know He can be trusted with the feelings of my weaknesses. I
know He can be leaned into.
My Dad taught me that.
Beth
