Janice Crow

June Reflections

Television in the 50's and early 60's would have had us to believe that fathers were these perfect, all-knowing creatures who could solve any problem in 30 minutes flat and whose judgment was never questioned. He could fix anything around the house and was the boss' right-hand man. He had the best golf swing and led his bowling league to a championship every year. He spent his evenings reading the newspaper, helping with geometry and teenage crushes and still had time to rescue Fluffy from the neighbor's tree, help mom with the dishes, and slip upstairs to give the kids a few more nuggets of wisdom before they drifted off to sleep …safe in the knowledge that dad was there. And although it wasn't realistic, it was a far better picture than what is displayed now.

Movies and television these days portray "Dad" as a bumbling idiot…a lovable buffoon who is unnecessary, but tolerated. His opinion, his permission, and his blessing is no longer sought or welcome. His wife and children have been "liberated" from his influence. He's a big teddy bear, a push-over, a wimp, and registers pretty much a zero on the "respect-o-meter". At work he's the absentee, the goof-off, the screw-up. He struggles to hold on to his minimum wage job while his wife brings home the bacon, solves everyone's problems, and has the respect and admiration of her peers. She holds him up to ridicule to their children and points to him as the perfect example of how not to be. I know it's just television…..isn't it?

My dad wasn't like Andy, Opie's pa. He wasn't like Beaver's dad, Ward, or Hoss Cartwright's paw. He was My Dad. Perfect? No. He didn't always know the right thing to say or how to say it. His advice was not always timely or appreciated. He sometimes got impatient and angry. His attempts to fix things were not always successful. He couldn't do the new math or impress anyone with his mental gymnastics or athletic prowess.

But what Dad could do was what he did. He could work two jobs most of the time just to make ends meet. He could spend months on an unfamiliar job in a strange northern town when there was no work at home. He could teach a Sunday School class and take us to church twice on Sunday, Tuesday night "young people's meeting" and Thursday night prayer meeting. He could play board games and pump up bicycle tires. He could buy us trumpets, trombones and clarinets and pay for piano lessons out of his meager salary. He could drive three hours to take us to gospel concerts that he couldn't afford and allow us to go in and listen to the Statesmen while he and mom waited outside in the car. He could send us to youth camp and pay for trips to enter Teen Talent competitions and brag on us to his clueless buddies at work. He could fly us home from Nashville just for Thanksgiving Day. He could teach. He could warn. He could praise. But who was praising him?

If Kermit thought it wasn't easy being green, he should have been a dad. It is not a job for the faint of heart; and although the bookstores are filled with how-to books on parenting, it is a lonely and little understood position. I caught a glimpse of it many years ago when my first marriage ended. Suddenly, I was plunged headfirst into the pool of responsibility. I was…there is no polite way to say this…deserted with two children under the age of four. The burden of their care and safety, food, shelter, clothing, physical and emotional wellbeing was all on my shoulders. I will never forget standing in shock amidst the empty boxes that I was about to pack my life away in. I had no money, no plan, no clue. And although my dad could have said, "I told you so", he didn't. He gave me a hug and moved me and two kids back into his house. He added three rooms and a basement to his home to make room for us. My dad didn't have to welcome me in. He could have said, "You've made your choices. Now live with them." But instead, he made a place for me.

I had always heard the scripture that says, "In my father's house are many mansions…", but it really didn't register until then. Various Bible translations have raised the question of whether it literally means "mansions" or whether it simply means "rooms". (Isn't it just like us kids to argue over who gets the front seat?) The point is, regardless of whether it's mansions or rooms, our Heavenly Father has prepared a place for us, and we don't deserve it. That is awesome to me. We will all face another "moving day", and God has spared no expense to see to it that His children are safe at home with Him.

When my dad retired, he was given a handshake and a watch that never kept time. He never had a wall full of framed certificates of achievement. There was no bowling or golf trophy on dad's mantle. In fact, he didn't even have a mantle. He had an old upright piano covered with a brown velveteen scarf that held five faded eight-by-tens - pictures of his children…five children that grew up to be good citizens, good sports and good Christians. These were Dad's "trophies".

This is to all of you who swing a hammer or dig a ditch, who wear starched white collars or blue, who wear uniforms and walk a beat in Iowa or Iraq, who stand behind pulpits or travel on buses to sing. There are still dads out there who exemplify God's grace. We still need you.

Thanks to all our Godly dads this Father's Day.

Janice Crow