Sunday Stories, January 15, 2017

At the Feet of My Father

As a child I had a favorite place: Under my father’s feet, more accurately described as, “In his way”. Everywhere he went, I would follow. If I wasn’t allowed or invited, I would mourn. The evening sound of his truck pulling in and the distinct tinny slam of its door were music to my ears. He’d return home smelling of saw dust and sweat, pick me up, toss me into the air, catch me and hold me tight. Heaven on earth. (I must insert that my siblings were also part of theses homecomings that might have happened once in a blue moon, but it wasn’t quantity, but quality that made lasting sunshine, granting me positive strength to press through darkness later in life.)

In addition to pastoring, dad was a carpenter. Summer days and Saturdays I would wake early and head off with dad to where ever new structures were being erected. His expertise was roofing. He would throw two bundles of asphalt shingles over his shoulder and shimmy up a ladder with no hands, drop the bundles with a thwack, kneel on one knee and begin weaving back and forth across a house in a rhythmic bang and swish of denim on wood, shingle on roof, hammer on nail.

My brother and I were very small when off we went to roof a house with dad. He pointed us to a sand pile in clear view of his aerial perch and headed up the ladder. The sand didn’t appeal, so I quietly followed dad. Honestly! What danger would there ever be in trekking behind one’s father? He had already nailed a few shingles before he realized he wasn’t alone. His reaction isn’t the point of this story, he can share that another time. The point is, I WANTED DESPERATELY TO BE WHERE HE WAS.

As I grew older, time with dad became scarce, but one summer he was building houses on Beaver Lake in north west Arkansas. Dad put me to work cleaning trash around building sites or other odd jobs. As an adult I recognize that it was probably inconvenient for him to find work for me rather than do it himself, but as a preteen I was oblivious. One miserably hot day his nail gun broke and it was back to old school hammer swings, except the nails were all attached together by glue and paper designed to shoot through his nail gun like bullets in a gatling gun. I was put to work with a pocket knife fixing the problem. It was mundane and I suspected dad was just trying to keep me off the roof and away from the bluff above the lake. I really didn’t care. I was with my father, I was earning my air and I was super proud to be the world’s best nail separator.

Many years later I felt an unmistakable call to Christian service. It was an entirely new way of thinking and processing life’s encounters. But I began to realize that once again, I was standing, sitting, working, living as close to my Father as I could possibly be and there wasn’t a job that was too lowly or mundane that I wouldn’t gladly do just for the precious moments spent in His presence.

Life is wonderful at the feet of my Father. He is good, He is long in love and patience and sometimes really funny too. Join me there and if He backs up or turns around quickly, He’ll find us right under His feet, in His way, watching and learning everything He does, and He’ll put us to work.

How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are! 1 John 3:1.

Love,

Gretchen