A Father’s Day Tribute
June 18, 2024
My dad was a patient man and I remember these two stories from my younger years.
I was ten. We lived in Macon, Georgia, a family of six. Often my dad would cook supper. Both parents were excellent cooks and all summer Mother canned vegetables from our garden. This summer evening, Daddy cooked. He used the pressure cooker to make a delectable-looking roast with vegetables to go with it. He set the platter in the middle of the table. Before we began the meal, he moved a chair to the other side of the table. He lifted it high and reached over to the other side of the table. The chair hit the light fixture and the bulb shattered. Guess where? You answered right—over the beautiful roast meal. That is all I remember. I don’t remember words of anger. I don’t remember any outbursts. Somehow, he rethought supper and life went on. The remarkable thing is that I don’t remember any angry words. My brother remembers frustration and disappointment—on my dad’s part and the children too!
I was thirteen. By then, we had moved “north” for my dad to attend seminary. I was in junior high school in North Kansas City. One day, Daddy brought home a used, very old book. I don’t know how he happened to have it, but he was excited. He couldn’t wait to show it to his history professor, a friend who had also moved from Georgia. The book was a very biased view of the history of the South and so much so that it was humorous. Daddy knew Dr. Wamble would be fascinated with this book, and they would enjoy the humor of it together. I had the idea to show it to my history teacher with the thought that it would give me some status in my class, which I needed badly. Junior high was a challenge for me. Daddy agreed to let me borrow the book for one day.
I headed down to the cafeteria and did as I always did. Since students had a limited amount of time for lunch, everyone threw their books in the hall against the wall across from the cafeteria and retrieved them when we went to our next class. You guessed it. When I returned to get my books, THE book was missing. That night I had to give my dad the sad report of the missing book. Again, I have no recall of the response. I don’t remember any words of anger. Life just went on. Perhaps he called the school and asked if someone had picked it up by mistake. Whatever took place, the remarkable thing is that I don’t remember a reprimand. I will point out that we were disciplined when we disobeyed, but this was a matter of poor judgment on the part of a young teen. We’ve all been there.
The last two weeks I have heard sermons from the book of James. I learned that James covers the matter of speech and anger several times in his book. He doesn’t go into a lot of explanations. The reader is left to ponder and apply.
James says: “Be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry,
for man’s anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires.”
I was jogging home from Gage Park as I recalled these stories and the words from the sermon. I asked myself: “What would it be like to spend some time with James? What could I learn from his speech, or lack thereof, or his control of anger?
This is what popped into my mind. My dad went by his middle name, Frank, but he was given the first name of James. I ran the rest of the way home with a smile.
