This Father’s Day, I keep coming back to one memory.

I was nine years old. Dad had just bought me a bicycle, and for what felt like weeks, he ran up and down the road beside me, one hand on the seat, holding me steady while I learned to pedal. The whole time he kept saying it, over and over: “You can do this, fella.”

Then one day he let go. And I can still hear him, running behind me, shouting, “You’re doing it, fella! You’re doing it!”

That sentence has followed me my whole life. It’s who my dad was.

The Years of Constant Care

I was born with an extrophy of the bladder, and for much of my childhood, my dad’s life revolved around getting me through it. He went with my mom me to almost every doctor’s visit. Sometimes it was just him and me. When fevers ran high, I’d be packed in beds of ice, and he would stay right beside me until he absolutely had to leave for work: encouraging me the whole time.

When the medical equipment that existed simply wasn’t designed for a kid with my condition, my dad and his friends built it themselves. There was no manual for that kind of love. He just made one up as he went.

And when there was no medical hope to offer, he offered something else: steadfast faith. He prayed through every surgery. He never once let go of believing God would heal me.

“Be Strong”

As a grade-school boy, there was a day I wanted to give up. So my dad took me to visit a school for disabled children. After we left, he didn’t lecture me. He simply told me I had a choice — I could go to a school like that one, or I could be strong, stay in my own school, and learn from the difficulties I was facing.

I’m so grateful he didn’t make that decision for me. He trusted me to choose strength, and he taught me what it looked like to not give up, long before I understood why that mattered.

A 50% Chance

As a teenager, I became bitter. I couldn’t understand why God hadn’t healed me yet. My dad’s answer wasn’t a clever theological explanation, it was simply, be patient.

Then came the surgery that would change everything, and it was life-threatening. I remember sitting in a wheelchair in the courtyard of Henrietta Egleston Hospital, Mom and Dad on a bench beside me, surrounded by the most colorful flowers I’d ever seen. Dad said, “We have talked and prayed about this, but we don’t feel like we can make this decision for you. There is a 50% chance this surgery will fail and you won’t make it.”

I told him there was also a 50% chance it would succeed. I was tired, physically, emotionally, spiritually tired, and I was ready. We prayed together right there. They told me how proud they were of the decision I was making.

To God be the glory, the surgery was a great success, and my life improved dramatically.

After that, Dad and I would go for long walks and slow “trots” through the pecan orchard, in the shade of the trees, talking about my future. He was strengthening me physically and emotionally again, this time not by holding a bicycle seat, but just by walking alongside me. I’m so grateful for those memories.

The Quiet Conversation

One evening, he came to my room. He didn’t push or preach. He just gently talked with me about God’s love, about Jesus, about the faith struggles I was wrestling with, about my health, about trusting God through all of it. It’s one of the most memorable conversations of my life. He hugged me, kissed my forehead goodnight, and I knew, even in the middle of my struggling that God loved me.

When I Pulled Away

Healing came slowly, little by little, and somewhere in there, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I started resenting my dad. I loved him. It shames me even now to remember it. He was so strong, so confident, so vibrant and I began to believe there was no way he could ever be proud of someone like me.

He never let that turn into disrespect, but he also never gave up on me. I can still picture him gathering us around his green recliner to read from his study Bible, the same Bible that sits in a dust-proof case in my study today. He and Mom would have us kneel at his knees each night and pray over every one of us.

Two Bibles

During the Jesus Movement of the ’70s, I became a passionate follower of Christ, that’s a story for another time. I started reading my Bible and praying earnestly, and through a friend I discovered a paraphrase called The Living Bible. Some preachers criticized it for being a paraphrase, but when I read it, I was amazed at how clearly it spoke compared to the King James I’d grown up with.

I bought a copy, half-afraid my dad wouldn’t approve. That very same day, he came home with a copy for me. So we had two. He kept the one he purchased for me and read it alongside his study Bible.

Through It Again

After high school graduation, I had another setback. Two weeks of high fevers, unable to eat or drink, my body shutting down in Emory Hospital. Dad never left my side. Neither did Mom. Prayers and medical care, constant, around the clock.

About a week after surgery, my body finally began to wake up. It was a week of pure joy.

Once I recovered, of all the places in the world, my dad wanted to take us to Lake Michigan. We went to the dunes and had the best time. That fall, I started college — still a long way to go physically, emotionally, and spiritually, but committed to Christ, and never walking that road alone.

The Red Pickup Truck

Fast forward through time. Becky and I married, began our pastoral ministry together, and were blessed with four children. Dad kept encouraging me, kept praying for me, kept showing up when I needed help. He taught me how to become a man, even in seasons when I didn’t believe I could ever be a strong one. Even after I started traveling the world, he would drive over in his red pickup truck just to tell me he loved me and was proud of me. He went everywhere in that red pickup. Each time I see a red Ford pickup like his, I miss him all over again.

He’s one of the reasons heaven is so precious to me.

“And now a word to you parents. Don’t keep on scolding and nagging your children, making them angry and resentful. Rather, bring them up with the loving discipline the Lord himself approves, with suggestions and godly advice.” Ephesians 6:4, The Living Bible, Paraphrased

Happy Heavenly Father’s Day, Dad. I’m still doing it, because you never let go too soon.