Doors and Windows

Daddy didn’t talk much. Every morning he woke up at five, exercised, read his Bible in his big yellow chair then left for work. When he got home, he read the paper, watched the news, read a book or sat with the family for a while before calling it a day.

His profession as an electrical engineer also kept him close-lipped as he spent most of his working years on some top-secret project for the phone company.

But somehow his reticence made me think that he didn’t love me. I was so convinced in fact, that I did whatever I could to get his attention and spent many years trying to win his approval. I would sit at his feet and drink in anything he would say to me. When he did talk it was always about God, the Bible or Christianity. His love for God’s Word was (and is still) so strong that rarely would he talk about anything else. He would say, “You can always learn no matter how old you are.”

Daddy worked hard. He was always improving our home or repairing something. He made sure we had a comfortable lifestyle – we wanted for nothing materially—yet he was always wise with money. His voiceless toil from dusk to dawn spoke volumes and only now can I hear what he was saying.

Still, I lost those years of his love to ignorance and my refusal to accept the only way he could communicate. I was so convinced that I needed his verbal and physical response and so craved his spoken affirmation that I missed his messages of affection. He loved me. His love spoke not through sounds that tickled my ears or facial expressions that entertained me, or constant hugging; it spoke through his faithfulness—his servant-hood to our family and to our God.

Daddy made sure we never missed church. In fact, we were always the first ones there because he had to unlock the doors. He was the sound-man and always the last to leave.

It was his vision that every missionary from our church be able to “attend church weekly” by having the entire service on tape. So, every Sunday night our family would duplicate tapes, package and mail them before we went home. It is neat to think that although these unseen members were all over the world, my dad’s efforts helped to keep them close to home.

I remember sitting next to him at a man’s funeral who had assisted him to pilot that program. The pastor praised the deceased saint for his dedication to the Lord’s work and then credited that man for having the vision and making it happen. My Dad sat in silent humility. I was outraged. I asked him if he was angry that his partner got all the credit. Dad just said no, he works for God and not for man’s praise.

Now, when I look back at his life, I realize that the proof of my Daddy’s love didn’t come through his voice; just like my Heavenly Father, Who, unseen and unheard, shows His love for me daily by the things He provides for me—by the things He’s done for me. I don’t have to earn God’s love, I don’t have to prove myself worthy to receive it, He simply loves me.

Daddy said he wasn’t good at finding the right words to express his feelings but he keeps trying. I’m just glad he spoke God’s word to me and that he’s learning how to hug