Daddy, my brother Patrick, and me on our ponies.

When I was little, he was big, bigger than life. Nobody compared to my daddy. His hair was thick and dark. His eyes sky blue. His laugh was unforgettable. He taught me how to make potato soup and shotgun shells. During hunting season, he disappeared, off to the duck blinds or up to the mountains after big bucks. One night in the middle of a lightening 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 might be 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.

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 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 him, I couldn’t imagine that cast iron pan without them.

Every Father’s Day, I wrestle with what to get my daddy. “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 hard 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. Often, he also pays for the oil my old Suburban burns like kindling wood.

My 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 Daddy with my Bible so he has all his “Christian facts” straight. This has only worn me out and put distance between us. Knowing the law and living grace are two different things. I’m learning that.

I have to say, I’ve seen more old-fashioned integrity in my daddy’s life than a lot of Christians I know. He’s never dressed up himself, nor his sins. 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 something for Daddy. Sharing it here is a leap of faith. The hope being it triggers memories of your daddy. Or maybe spurs you to write a letter to your father even if you never send it because perhaps he’s gone from your life, but that doesn’t mean you can’t spend some precious time with his memory on Father’s Day. Words can be gifts 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 this is you, write your Heavenly Father a letter. This will take time and energy and an open heart. But that’s the point. Once you’ve probed your daddy past, praise God for your future. There is nothing in your life God can’t redeem. He is the ultimate Daddy and He’ll hold your hand through this life if you let Him.

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