This Is What My Father Taught Me
This is what my father taught me: read the Word every day...and at night when you can not sleep.
Every morning before school we sat down as a family and had family devotions. Light filled the kitchen where we all sat around the counter, our plates and cups empty save for a few crumbs of toast and drops of orange juice. I can still hear Dad's deep voice in my head reading the thrilling accounts of the prophets, the poetry of the psalmists, and the sermons of my Savior.
I inherited my father's knack for waking up in the night. On many such occasions, I awoke to see the glow of a candle reflecting off our tin roof. If I stood up in bed and peeked over the wall, I could see the source of the light. It was always Dad, sitting at the kitchen table, with a huge book stood up to protect his candle from drafts, and his Bible open before him. It always comforted me to know that he was out there, awake and aware just like I was.
This is what my father taught me: read books.
Even before I was in school I had a burning desire to read. Books were an inseparable part of our family life. My father read more than anyone. The bookcase he built for our house stretched above my head to that far off place where the walls ended and the rafters began. It was filled with novels, biographies, memoirs, poetry, and big books full of pictures. When people came to visit, they sat at our kitchen table and talked. At some point in the conversation my father would say, "I think I have a book on that somewhere," looking over his shoulder searchingly at the bookcase.
When I did learn how to read, I read everything that caught my fancy. Dad catered to me, giving me books on Greek mythology, great explorers like Magellan and Columbus, and missionaries like Gladys Aylward, David Livingston, and Brother Andrew. Then one day I decided to read Scottish Chiefs, one of the biggest books I had ever seen. As soon as I had started it, I did exactly what my father always did: I talked about what I was reading. I learned everything I could so that I could sit at the table and say, just like Dad always did, "Guess what I learned to today."
This is what my father taught me: pray.
Prayer was a part of my father's life, and so it became a part of mine from the day I was born. We prayed before we went into the jungle, before we went on trips, before we ate our meals, before we started classes, and before bed. My father loves to talk to God, and he taught me by his example that prayer was not just something we did in church. Prayer was something he did everyday, and it was not because he had to. It was, and still is because he loves to talk to God.
This is what my father taught me: go for walks.
It did not matter where we were. If we had some spare time, Dad took a walk. He does it because it helps him think, and also because he can not run as he used to. If I went with him, I held his Scripture cards for him, and listened as he recited. We discussed the books we were reading, the books we wanted to write, the music I was playing, the movies we wanted to make, and, of course, boys. Now that I am older and on my own, I take walks whenever I can. And I carry Scripture cards with me, too.
This is what my father taught me: love should be expressed.
My father was always expressing his love for my mother in new ways. He wrote "How do I love thee, let me count the ways..." on her umbrella so she would see it the next time it rained. He bought her perfume, wrote her notes, gave her back massages, and helped her with dinner. I can not remember a single day of my childhood where I did not see my parents kiss, hug, or verbally express affection.As a result, my sibling and I grew up expressing love freely. We said "I love you" every morning as we left for school, when we went on trips, and every night before we fell asleep. Granted, we still had arguments, but we also did our best to help one another, the way our parents helped one another.
These are the lessons my father taught me. May I never forget them.
Every morning before school we sat down as a family and had family devotions. Light filled the kitchen where we all sat around the counter, our plates and cups empty save for a few crumbs of toast and drops of orange juice. I can still hear Dad's deep voice in my head reading the thrilling accounts of the prophets, the poetry of the psalmists, and the sermons of my Savior.
I inherited my father's knack for waking up in the night. On many such occasions, I awoke to see the glow of a candle reflecting off our tin roof. If I stood up in bed and peeked over the wall, I could see the source of the light. It was always Dad, sitting at the kitchen table, with a huge book stood up to protect his candle from drafts, and his Bible open before him. It always comforted me to know that he was out there, awake and aware just like I was.
This is what my father taught me: read books.
Even before I was in school I had a burning desire to read. Books were an inseparable part of our family life. My father read more than anyone. The bookcase he built for our house stretched above my head to that far off place where the walls ended and the rafters began. It was filled with novels, biographies, memoirs, poetry, and big books full of pictures. When people came to visit, they sat at our kitchen table and talked. At some point in the conversation my father would say, "I think I have a book on that somewhere," looking over his shoulder searchingly at the bookcase.
When I did learn how to read, I read everything that caught my fancy. Dad catered to me, giving me books on Greek mythology, great explorers like Magellan and Columbus, and missionaries like Gladys Aylward, David Livingston, and Brother Andrew. Then one day I decided to read Scottish Chiefs, one of the biggest books I had ever seen. As soon as I had started it, I did exactly what my father always did: I talked about what I was reading. I learned everything I could so that I could sit at the table and say, just like Dad always did, "Guess what I learned to today."
This is what my father taught me: pray.
Prayer was a part of my father's life, and so it became a part of mine from the day I was born. We prayed before we went into the jungle, before we went on trips, before we ate our meals, before we started classes, and before bed. My father loves to talk to God, and he taught me by his example that prayer was not just something we did in church. Prayer was something he did everyday, and it was not because he had to. It was, and still is because he loves to talk to God.
This is what my father taught me: go for walks.
It did not matter where we were. If we had some spare time, Dad took a walk. He does it because it helps him think, and also because he can not run as he used to. If I went with him, I held his Scripture cards for him, and listened as he recited. We discussed the books we were reading, the books we wanted to write, the music I was playing, the movies we wanted to make, and, of course, boys. Now that I am older and on my own, I take walks whenever I can. And I carry Scripture cards with me, too.
This is what my father taught me: love should be expressed.
My father was always expressing his love for my mother in new ways. He wrote "How do I love thee, let me count the ways..." on her umbrella so she would see it the next time it rained. He bought her perfume, wrote her notes, gave her back massages, and helped her with dinner. I can not remember a single day of my childhood where I did not see my parents kiss, hug, or verbally express affection.As a result, my sibling and I grew up expressing love freely. We said "I love you" every morning as we left for school, when we went on trips, and every night before we fell asleep. Granted, we still had arguments, but we also did our best to help one another, the way our parents helped one another.
These are the lessons my father taught me. May I never forget them.
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