Father's Day approaches, and I'm thinking of someone in particular. We lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same church and even carpooled together. But cancer claimed him in his prime, robbing a wife and two young sons of husband and father. He was my friend, Gerald Graham.
Friends don't laugh at your dreams, no matter how farfetched. And I had a dream back then–a full-time job with a magazine I had often freelanced for. When the editor gave me a "get here as quickly as you can" summons, I booked the first flight to Chicago. A done deal, I concluded.
But just before flying out, I asked Gerald to pray with me about the situation. And that he did, right there on our carport, confidently imploring God to close my open door if we didn't need to move.
True to his word, the editor met my plane about noon the next day… only to stammer an embarrassed greeting. Just that morning, he sheepishly confessed, a fellow with perfect credentials strolled into the office–and they hired him even as I, the heir apparent, was en route. But could he still give me a tour of the area before returning home? No country boy was ever more thrilled to flee Chicago!
Gerald deeply loved his sons. Like pickpockets on holiday, tornadoes ransacked the countryside one evening as the Graham family huddled in their hall. Gerald sought to comfort the little boys' fears. "Listen," he said. "God is in control of this weather, and He will protect us." Without hesitation, Jeffrey dramatically wiped a furrowed brow and sighed deeply. "Whew! I'm glad to hear that!" Peace was instantly restored as an earthly father whispered assurances of the heavenly Father's watchcare.
When David, probably about three, fretted over whether there would be lambs in heaven, his father tenderly consoled him. David had been taught that heaven would be a happy place, and Gerald stood by that teaching. He told us later that if lambs were required for David's happiness, they would surely be there.
These brief memories encapsulate three of the many roles fathers are called to fill. They are the essence of what real fathers do: befriend, comfort and teach. And when the end comes for each of us fathers–as it surely will–what better ways to be remembered?
Though 15 Father's Days have come and gone since that cold January day, I still recall two brave young men, 18 and 16, stoically standing by their father's casket. But only upon entering heaven themselves will they fully realize how their father's faithful prayers for them did not die with him, but remained a soothing balm for their lifelong needs.
Then, finally and forever, will be gone the tornadoes–and all other frightful storms of life. And consistent with the scene their father had so often painted, I don't believe they'll be surprised to see the lambs.
Copyright 2002 James McAlister
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