When I was little, he was big. Bigger than life. Nobody compared to my daddy. His hair was thick and black and smelled like Brylcreem. His eyes sky blue. His laugh was unforgettable. He taught me how to make potato soup and shotgun shells and fires when we camped. During hunting season, he disappeared off to the duck blinds or up to the mountains after the big bucks. One night in the middle of a lightning storm we crawled around our green, shag, 1970’s carpet together unplugging lamps and the television and anything else connected to the wall. Thunder shook the house. It never crossed my mind we were in danger. I was with my daddy.

He never told me I was pretty, or said, “I love you” when I was young, but plenty of spankings came my way. Both of us were hardheads. Yet, I always knew he found me special. I thought him special, too. In junior high, I pined for a pair of brand name platform heels that cost way too much. Without fanfare, he bought them for me. And a Toyota Celica with a sunroof when I turned sixteen. These things didn’t come easy. Everyone worked hard in our family to make a living.

Daddy grew up poor and, in the summer, barefoot. He stocked shelves in a grocery store while going to high school, and put himself through college to become a civil engineer. Sometimes he’d bring home a horse or a cow instead of cash for his engineering work. “Lots of people lead hard lives. You gotta help folks when you can,” he’d say.

We’ve had our ups and downs. Roaring fights and quiet talks. Taking horses to the high country with our fishing poles will forever be my favorite thing, Daddy’s every campfire meal mad with onions. In the valley, I couldn’t stand the smell of an onion, but in the mountains with Daddy, I couldn’t imagine that cast iron pan without them.

Every Father’s Day, I wrestle with what to get my dad. “Don’t buy him a shirt, he has plenty,” my mom tells me every year, and in the end, the shirt it is, along with Swedish fish candy because I can’t think of anything else. Unless Wilber Smith has a new novel out. Everything he wants he goes and buys for himself. This isn’t difficult since his wants are few. He wears out his cowboy boots where he tucks his reading glasses from Walmart. The Dodge diesel pickup he drives has over 300,000 miles. I’ve heard him cuss in church, but he keeps a picture of Jesus in his truck’s dash, along with the gas card he shares with me. He pays for the oil my old Suburban burns like kindling wood.

Daddy isn’t perfect, but he has a perfect Savior. I’m not sure how well he knows Jesus, but I’ve given up beating him over the head with my Bible. This has only worn me out and put distance between us. Knowing God’s law and living God’s grace are two different things, I’m learning.

I have to say, I’ve seen more old-fashioned integrity in Daddy’s life than a lot of Christians I know. He never dresses himself or his sins up. This has helped me tremendously in my walk with God. Honesty does far more for the soul than getting all pretty for church.

This year for Father’s Day, I decided to write Daddy a letter. Sharing it with you is a leap of faith. I hope it triggers special memories of your own daddy. Or maybe spurs you to write a note to your father even if you never send it because maybe he’s gone from your life, but that doesn’t mean you can’t spend some time with his memory on Father’s Day. Words can be a gift so much more meaningful than a shirt or a tie.

Not all of us grow up with daddies. And some of us have endured really bad fathers. If you don’t have a dad or hate the one you have, write your Heavenly Father a letter. This will take time and an open heart. But that’s the point. There is nothing in your life God can’t redeem. God is our ultimate Daddy, reach out to Him on Father’s Day.

“The LORD is like a father to His children, tender and compassionate to those who fear Him,” Psalm 103:13.