As a child I had a favorite place: At 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. Year’s into adulthood I realize those moments instilled me with positive strength to press through darkness later in life.
In addition to pastoring, my father was a carpenter. Summer days 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 climbed 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 it himself another time. The point is, I WANTED DESPERATELY TO BE WHERE HE WAS, WATCHING AND ENGAGING WHAT HE WAS DOING.
As I grew older, time with dad became scarce, but one summer he was building houses on Beaver Lake in north west Arkansas. He put me to work cleaning trash around building sites and 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 an eleven year old, I was oblivious. One miserably hot day his nail gun broke and it was back to old school hammer swings, except the nails were attached together by glue and paper, designed to shoot through a compression tool like bullets in a gatling gun. I was put to work with a pocket knife separating the galvanized the nails. It was mundane but it kept me off a roof, away from the bluff above the lake and I was with my father, earning my air and super proud to be the world’s best ‘dad helper.’
Many years later I felt an unmistakable call to Christian service. It was an entirely new way of thinking and processing life’s encounters. Standing, sitting, working, living as close to my Heavenly Father as I could possibly be was wonderful, and there wasn’t a job that was too lowly that I wouldn’t gladly do, just for the precious moments spent in His service.
Life is wonderful at the feet of the Father. He is good, long in love, abundant in patience and has a great sense of humor. (Volunteer in the children’s department and you’ll see what I’ve discovered.) Join me at the Father’s Feet. He’ll give us something to do, put us to work and it will be amazing.
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