As
a young boy growing up in the country, my fondest memories were of
deer and quail hunting with my father. He was a great dad who had a
deep conviction that if you took your boy hunting you wouldn't have to
hunt for your boy. He was a Christian and consistently took me to the
Presbyterian church each Sunday, except during the peak of hunting
season.
I
always loved my dad and wanted to be just like him when I grew up. He
was a man's man, and in those days a man's love was expressed with a
firm handshake and a warm pat on the back. Love was shown by spending
time together, doing meaningful things like hiking miles through the
oak and juniper covered hills of the high desert looking for deer or
quail. Hunting is a great sport for men because it requires very
little verbal communication, and the talking that does go on is mostly
centered around exciting old hunting stories about past successes,
near misses of huge trophy bucks, or spectacular 300 yard shots.
It was nothing deep enough to be too threatening.
I
so admired my dad that when I was too young to carry a gun, I would
follow him and attempt to step in his footprints.
He walked slightly pigeon-toed and so did I.
I was proud of it, too. When
I was twelve years old, I began to carry an old Winchester rifle that
my dad had used some 25 or 30 years earlier to shoot his first deer.
It was a great honor and a symbol of the independence and
responsibility of manhood to me.
As
a young boy I always called my dad “Daddy.”
At about 10 years of age I tried to train myself to refer to
him as “Dad,” especially in the presence of his friends and mine.
Men who carry rifles call their fathers “Dad,” anyone knows
that! With the change in
titles also comes a change of perspectives and attitudes.
You can run to your daddy for security, but when you have a
dad, you are an adult in behavior and a bit independent and cool.
One
day when we were hunting the rolling hills of junipers together, my
dad suggested that we split up and hunt separate ravines with the
intention of meeting at a determined landmark.
I’d never been alone in those hills before, but because I was
now an official hunter, I couldn’t refuse.
We had been separated for nearly half and hour when I realized
I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to be, and I became increasingly
anxious about it. Anxiety
soon turned to fear and I began to cry out “Daddy” as loud as I
could. This went on for
what seemed like hours, but in reality it was probably only minutes.
Suddenly, on a distant ridge I saw movement and I realized it
was my father. I know he must have heard me, and I later realized he
hadn’t ever lost sight of me, but he never let on he’d seen or
heard my panic. He just
kept moving up that ridge in plain sight, making sure I was aware of
his presence. All the fear and anxiety left me and I gave him a casual
wave, yelling, “Hey Dad,” in a voice just a few octaves lower.
Years
later, I found myself lost again. I wasn’t lost from my earthly father, but from my heavenly
father who, like my natural father, had never really lost sight of
me…even in my aimless wandering.
If asked, I would have said I was a Christian; after all, I was
raised in the Presbyterian church.
But the trouble was I’d been walking through life trying to
be in control and “manly”. I
was independent and somewhat aloof from God, standing on my own two
feet and bearing all the symbols of manhood.
I had a good job, a frustrated but wonderful wife, and two
young children. We had a
great home in the country, horses, and an old dog named Blue.
People saw me as a self-made man with a perfect life.
As
I look back, I can see that not having a true, intimate relationship
with God the Father is a very lost, desperate situation.
In 1979, my marriage hit a crisis and in the midst of it I
became helpless and desperate. No
matter how hard I tried I couldn’t seem to hold it together.
I remember one Sunday afternoon when an argument escalated into
a war. A cup of coffee
was thrown through a window and I snapped into a runaway rage.
I lost my grip emotionally on anything sane or normal and began
to tear the house apart. First
chairs, then whole beds were turned over.
I was out of control when all of a sudden my eyes connected
with my then three-year-old son, who was staring at me in
unbelief.
I
can't explain it exactly, but his look at me as his "Daddy"
triggered something very deep in me; something so deep that I didn't
even know it was there. I began to weep from deep within; I
convulsively wept until I hurt. I ran out of tears, but I couldn't
stop crying. Years and years of issues, frustration, and pain from a
life of independence from God the Father all came to the surface at
once. Both my son and wife held onto me, and Nancy began to pray for
God's intervention. She
prayed that I wouldn’t lose my mind, but that together we’d come
into the fullness of the Father.
I cried out that day to my “Abba Father.” I chose to cling
to Him in intimacy and brokenness; no longer to be aloof and
independent, but open to His love for me.
I
was again like that kid trying to find his way through broken juniper
hills, crying “Daddy” from the depths of my fear and insecurity.
But this time when I was found, I just kept crying “Abba
Father.” I knew that He
had never lost sight of me, but had just been waiting for me to see my
need for Him.
Originally
published in Vineyard Northwest Newsletter #10, October 1996
