Faith of My Father
“Faith of our fathers, we will love both friend and foe in all our strife, and preach thee, too, as love knows how, by kindly words and virtuous life: Faith of our fathers, Holy faith! We will be true to thee till death.” ~ Frederick W. Faber, 1814-1863 (Baptist Hymnal, 1956) “Yet, the Lord set His heart in love on your fathers, and chose their offspring after them…as you are to this day.” ~ Deuteronomy 10:15 I’m not one of those people who can say, “As a kid in church, I remember how my dad sang the old hymns loudly and boldly, belting out his love for Jesus in beautiful, baritone-rich harmonies.” Oh, no! Some of my young Sunday school friends could claim it, or even boast of their parents singing in the choir. My dad, however, was special for different reasons. First of all, as a five year old, this girl thought he was quite handsome, standing tall in his black Sunday suit, crisp white shirt and tie, and polished dress shoes. Music filled the air of the small Southern Baptist church, rising on the voices of parishioners as the old hymns rang out with piano and organ in one accord. “Let’s all stand as we open our hymnals to page…” This is how the song director usually began, as we rose promptly to our feet, and Daddy, opening his hymnbook, would hold it close to my mother so she could read and sing along. He, personally, never uttered a word or sang a single note, but he stood tall, proudly participating in congregational worship without missing a beat, so to speak. You see, the only time my father let anyone hear him sing was at home when, four times a year, he would help sing happy birthday to my mom or one of us girls. He, of course, was given a reprieve on his own birthday, but as the years went by he stopped singing altogether, even on these few simple, annual occasions. Anyway, this is how we all knew that his lack of song participation in church was really about the gift he was giving to others around him; the gift of silence. But we kids never gave it a second thought, as we knew that this man, who was our everything, couldn’t carry a tune to save his life. And thankfully, for the hearing world, that was never required. Although, it also wasn’t that he was completely without musical talent, for he and my mom, during their dating years in the 1940s, made quite a pair in the world of square dancing and clogging. He could make his feet dance up a storm, but exercising his vocal chords was entirely a different matter. Some years after his passing, my sisters and I were helping our mom go through old things in the garage in advance of selling her house. One of my sisters, I don’t remember which, discovered a tattered box belonging to Daddy, filled with memorabilia he’d kept from his youth. There was a worn photograph of his very first car, a 1931 Ford Model A, that one of my sisters remembers him telling her about. By the time he was old enough to purchase it, sometime in the late ‘30s or early ‘40s, the car in the photograph looked tired and a little worse for the wear. Also in the box were a variety of other older photographs, some odds and ends, and miraculously one old report card from his elementary school days. We huddled around taking note of his childhood grades when we saw it: “Music…D!” We laughed until tears ran down our cheeks and were doubled over with aching bellies, immediately sending us back to those childhood Sundays that Daddy graciously spared us his (lack of) vocal giftedness. But, the Bible says to simply make a joyful “noise” unto the Lord, and so what he lacked musically, he more than made up for as husband, father, and child of God. He daily, quietly, the epitome of the southern gentleman that he was, lived out his faith. He “sang his song” differently than most. Was he perfect? No. And none of us are. That’s why we need Jesus, and that is the song his life sang each and every day. From the time I was born, he and my mom took me to church. At mealtime and bedtime, he taught me to pray. When I was injured, he would clean and dress my wounds (and somehow the mercurochrome solution didn’t sting as bad when he painted it on). Scraped knees and elbows, splinters and bee stings, all were his specialty…he tenderly met my physical needs while soothing my fears, as only he could. Not to sound sacrilegious, but he was “like Jesus with skin on”…doing what Jesus would do, ministering to needs. As an aside, I need to mention that visiting the doctor was also not as frightening with him there. This was usually Mama’s job, but I distinctly remember occasions when this duty fell to him, and whatever pain the doctor and nurses could inflict, or threaten to inflict, was nothing compared to the strength and stoicism he brought to the situation. I realized I could be brave because he was brave. Tucking my small hand into his larger one made all the difference. He wore that same quiet strength every day of his life. Daddy had a way with people that was genuine and “down-home.” His folksy ways didn’t allow room for a pretentious bone in his body, a product of good stock and being brought up with love, discipline, and a rock-solid sense of right and wrong. If older neighbors or family needed their lawn mowed, he mowed it. If someone was in need of a car ride to their destination, he gave it. If money was in need, he gave out of his meager but blessed livelihood. And if any of his children’s friends needed the kindness of
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