Missing My Dad

By Mike Glenn

My dad taught Sunday School for over forty years. My favorite memory of him is seeing him sit in his favorite chair with his Bible open in his lap, his pen in one hand, and his Sunday School quarterly in the other. My dad was always writing notes in his Bible. Once, when I was visiting him, I noticed that his Bible was falling apart. I mean, literally, falling apart. You didn't pick up his Bible. You scooped it up or pages would fly out of the Bible like confetti at a parade. So, I bought him a new Bible and of course, he never used it. When I asked him why, he said the new Bible didn't know anything.

Every Saturday night, Dad would interrupt my brother and me as we watched TV to excitedly tell us something he had discovered in his study. "Can you believe that?" he would shout. My brother and I would roll our eyes and get back to watching the ball game. After I began my ministry, my dad would call me every Saturday afternoon. He would be studying his lesson and have a question. I would answer the phone to hear him say, "Hey, boy, I paid for your seminary and now, I want some of it back." After that, we would debate and argue about Scripture until he was satisfied that he could teach his lesson the following Sunday morning.

I learned to love Scripture from my dad.

My dad was a child of the great American dream in the best sense of this term. He grew up on a worthless dirt farm in south Mississippi. His father died on Christmas morning when my dad was nine. My grandfather's death pushed the family into poverty. To hear Dad tell it, being called poor would have been a compliment. Dad used to say that his family was so poor that on Christmas morning, they would sit around and exchange glances. He joined the Air Force, learned electronics, taught the Hawk missile system on Redstone Arsenal, built the largest RCA/Whirlpool dealership in North Alabama, and served on the city council of Huntsville, Alabama. Dad worked two jobs all my life and three jobs for most of it. Dad made a promise to himself that his children would never pick cotton - and I never did.

I still get frustrated at myself for taking so long to fully understand the sacrifices he made for me and my brother and how great a journey he walked to make sure he could take care of his family.

Because my dad worked so much, he was rarely at home when I had to go to bed. My mom would make me go to bed - but I was tricky. I would go to bed, but I wouldn't go to sleep. I would lie awake until I heard my dad come home. I learned to recognize his footsteps. Until the day he died, I could recognize my father's footsteps. He had a very distinct heel-toe rhythm when he walked that is burned into my memory...and my heart.

The Apostle Paul writes in Ephesians 6 that fathers shouldn't frustrate their children. That's a pretty low bar for fatherhood. Paul seems to be saying, "Dads, the kids will be fine if you don't screw them up." While it took me a long time to get what Paul was trying to say, I think I finally understand what he was getting at. I think Paul is saying, "Dads, don't make it hard for your kids to believe in God." When the Bible says that God loves you like a father, don't make it hard for them to understand that kind of love. My dad did that. He made it easy for me to believe in God. It was easy for me to understand a father's love. God loved me like my dad...just bigger.

With Father's Day being last Sunday, I spent most of the week thinking about Dad. I miss him. I wish I could have talked to him. We would have had lots of laughs. My dad was a funny man. He was a good father. I pray that one day when my kids are thinking about me on Father's Day, my sons will love me and miss me the same way I love and miss my dad.

Happy Father's Day, Big John. Your son and grandsons all believe in God. You made it easy for us.