This Father’s Day, try being there

This Father’s Day, try being there.

If you can’t be there in person, do the next best thing: Call or FaceTime.

Just make sure you are totally there when you are there.

One of my favorite quotes from martyred missionary, Jim Eliot, is, “Wherever you are, be all there.”

I first read that quote in high school and still struggle with being “all there” to this day.

It sounds simple, but it’s not always easy to do when you are in the presence of others, because it requires that we give our attention to someone else, making ourselves available and even vulnerable to them.

This Father’s Day, try being there, really there.

It’s not complicated; it doesn’t need to take the entire afternoon---your dad probably doesn’t want to visit that long anyway.

But you will need to take enough time to make time for dad, so that he knows you were “all there,” when you were there.

If it can be a time just for you and your dad alone to talk and visit, that’s even better.

At least let Dad know you are there for him, even if others are around.

If you are involved in some activity while you are with Dad, make sure he knows you are devoted to being completely with him while you are there.

Spending time with him tells him he is important to you. He matters.

One of my most vivid memories of time with my dad was taking a drive with him. I couldn’t have been older that 10 or 11, still young enough when taking a drive had some allure to it.

I suppose part of the fun of that drive was that Dad and I skipped Sunday night church; Sunday morning as well as Sunday night church attendance was routine for our family during my growing up days.

Mom was out of town, and I don’t know where my older brothers were, but Dad and I were home alone that evening. We started out to church, but for some reason, Dad wanted to go for a drive, so we headed east instead of west.

To this day, every time I drive by the Wichita Mountains on Highway 62 east of Altus, Oklahoma, I think of the time Dad and I went for a drive with no particular reason other than to go.

I still recall him telling me that some say gold is hidden in those Wichita Mountains, secretly buried there by Wild West outlaws who all died before they could come back and retrieve their heist.

Dad spent time with us. He took my brother and me fishing on numerous occasions. During my teenage years, I traveled to Africa, India, and the Middle East with Dad and Mom on mission trips. I cherish those wonderful moments.

But that simple, little Sunday afternoon drive remains one of the warmest memories I have of time with Dad.

For one thing, it was time with just the two of us, shared with no one else. We just drove and talked. Dad talked with me, and no one else interrupted our conversation. Cell phones were an invention of the distant future. I do recall Dad turning to KWHW AM radio (we didn’t have FM then) as we returned and entered the city limits. KWHW carried the First Baptist Church Sunday evening worship service. Dad wanted to “hear what was happening.” But other than that, it was time with ourselves.

And it was spontaneous; we didn’t plan it. We were headed to church and ended up in the country. The uniqueness of the trip underscored its significance.

I would like to think there’s another reason why that simple drive stands out in my mind.

As important as being faithful in church attendance was to Dad, maybe he recognized that at least for that Sunday afternoon, an exception could be made.

An exception that said, “Time with my son matters.”

Make time for Dad this Sunday, for time with him matters.

My dad’s too far away for me to visit this Father’s Day.

But I’ll call him.

And I think I’ll ask him if I can take him for a drive when I’m there to visit later this summer.

A drive with no particular place to go.

And just the two of us in the car.

His eye is on the sparrow

Our Schnauzer, Max, was prancing toward us, like he had just won the blue ribbon at a dog show.

We were relaxing on our back patio, enjoying the mild weather, watching the sun set.

“What’s that in his mouth?” Lori innocently asked.

He dropped it at our feet, as if it were his offering to us.

“Oh no,” Lori exclaimed, “a dead bird.”

It wasn’t just a dead bird; it was a dead, baby bird. And worse, upon further examination, the nestling wasn’t totally dead. Its tiny beak was still moving.

“Oh, this is horrible,” Lori responded when I pointed out the mangled bird still had at least some life in it, enough for it to suffer.

She wanted to punish our dog, but when we looked back for him, he had disappeared.

In a matter of moments, Max returned, carrying another bird in his mouth. He then obsequiously placed it at our feet, as if he had fetched our evening meal for us.

“No, no, no,” Lori scolded him.

The dog looked confused.

I followed him to the scene of the crime: a bird’s nest had fallen to the ground, allowing our dogs to torment the nestlings.

“He’s only being what he is, a dog,” I said, playing defense attorney for Max as I corralled our dogs into the house.

And so it was: I was left with the unenviable task of putting the baby birds out of their misery.

Call it the circle of life.

Or death.

I looked back, way back, beyond the weeds in my vegetable garden near the fence row to the biblical narrative about another garden, the one that was once perfect. When the first humans chose their own way against God’s, not only did their rebellion affect them and us, but nature was somehow tilted askew as well.

And so we dwell for a time among thorns and thistles.

And dogs and cats, who are what they are, doing what they do to birds of their prey.

Sometimes in the still of the night, I hear the coyotes howling in the field behind our house. With one eye open, I wonder if they are celebrating the catch of the night at their dinner table. Assured that our dogs are safe inside, I breathe a sigh of relief before drifting back to sleep, for I know the dogs who so effortlessly took the life from those birds could just as easily be the next meal for the coyotes.

As I put on my Red Wings, covering those helpless birds in a towel, turning my head away as I stomp them out of their misery, I wish I had the miracle working power in me to touch those babies and bring them back to wellness and wholeness and life.

I yearned for that very same thing a few days later when someone needed a pastor to pray.

As Lori and I stood by his bed, a man whose body was riddled with cancer for no cause other than that he is caught in the same imperfect web of life and death as those nestlings, I wished again: I wanted to place my hands on his cancer ridden body and heal him, right there and then, a complete healing and not one just in part, and not only a healing for him but for everyone like him---people suffering with all manner of diseases and calamities that plague us this side of glory.

I did all I knew to do: I prayed, humbly asking and believing for a miracle.

And who knows? Perhaps by God’s grace it will happen.

This I do know: whether it’s on this side of eternity or the next:

His eye is on those sparrows,

And I know he watches over me.

And you.