This week, I’ll turn 53 years old. Forty years ago, one week before my 13th birthday, my dad died in a car wreck. I’ve now lived 40 years without him, compared to the almost 13 years I had with him.
At the time of this writing, it’s been 40 years since my dad went to heaven.
Forty years.
He died in a car wreck one week before my 13th birthday.
A lot of people were devastated when he passed away. I was certainly one of them.
My mom and dad divorced when I was four years old. Dad moved about 300 miles away to start over, and I went with him.
I lived with Dad and spent summers and holidays visiting my mom and my half brothers from her previous marriage.
Looking back, I’m thankful things worked out that way.
Like a lot of little boys, my dad was my hero. And I knew I was his cherished treasure.
He was only 25 years old when he set out to build a new life with a four-year-old tagging along.
We moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma, where he sold suits during the day and attended night school to become a banker.
Just imagine that for a minute.
A 25-year-old single dad, working, going to school, trying to build a future, and raising a little boy at the same time.
I understand a little more about what that must have required now than I did back then.
He needed somewhere for me to go while he worked, so I ended up becoming the youngest kid in first grade, skipping kindergarten altogether.
Looking back, I honestly wish he’d waited another year. Academically and athletically, being the youngest wasn’t always an advantage.
But it’s bittersweet, because I wouldn’t trade the friendships I made along the way.
Funny how life works like that.
The truth is, I’ve spent much of my life missing him.
Not just missing the memories we could have made, but missing the man who could have helped me navigate the different seasons of my life.
In some ways, I’ve felt like a ship without a rudder.
When you’re a little boy, you need your dad.
But something I didn’t fully understand at 13 is that you still need him when you’re 20, 30, 40, and even 50.
There have been so many times I’ve wished I could pick up the phone and ask him a question.
What would you do?
Am I handling this right?
How do I become a man of honor and integrity?
How do I become a good husband?
How do I raise my children well?
And the truth is, even today, I still wrestle with some of those questions.
I’ve learned a lot of lessons the hard way.
Experience is a pretty good teacher, but goodness gracious, sometimes the tuition is expensive.
At 39 years old, my wife and I adopted four siblings in one day.
Just like that, I became the father of four.
That was 14 years ago.
I went from wondering whether I was getting life right to having four little people watching how I lived it.
And believe me, there’s nothing quite like raising children to reveal the areas of your own life that still need some work.
One thing I’ve tried to do is be transparent with our kids.
I don’t want them to have to learn every lesson the hard way, especially the ones I’ve already paid for.
I’ve shared my successes with them, but I’ve also tried to be honest about my failures.
The poor decisions.
The missed opportunities.
The times I got it wrong.
Not because I want them to think less of me, but because I want them to understand that making mistakes doesn’t have to define their lives.
What matters is what we do afterward.
And despite the places I’ve missed it, our four kids have grown into wonderful young people.
Are they perfect?
Of course not.
Neither is their dad.
But I’m proud of who they’re becoming.
And I’d like to believe that some of what I’ve passed along to them came from the almost 13 years I had with my own father.
That’s something I’ve been thinking about lately.
My dad has been gone for 40 years, and he’s still influencing the way I live.
Think about that.
He only had a short time with me, yet the impact of those years has lasted my entire life.
And that’s really why I wanted to share this.
To the dads out there, I want to encourage you.
What you’re doing matters.
I know there are days when you’re tired. Days when the bills keep coming, work is frustrating, the kids aren’t listening, and you wonder whether you’re making any difference at all.
You are.
Keep going.
Keep your head up.
Love your wife.
Love your kids.
Spend time with them.
Let them know you’re proud of them.
They’re watching you, probably more closely than you realize.
They’re learning from how you treat their mother, how you handle disappointment, how you treat people who can’t do anything for you, and what you do when life doesn’t go according to plan.
And when you mess up, because you will, don’t pretend you didn’t.
Own it.
Apologize.
Let your kids see what humility looks like.
Then get up and keep moving forward.
You don’t have to be a perfect father to be a good one.
And here’s something else I’ve come to believe.
Your biggest ministry may be sitting around your own dinner table.
Before the church activities, the volunteer opportunities, the projects, and all the other good things we can get involved in, God has entrusted us with people right inside our own homes.
People who need our love, our attention, our encouragement, and our example.
Ephesians 6:4 reminds fathers to raise their children in the discipline and instruction of the Lord.
And I think that begins with the way we live in front of them.
Not flawlessly.
But faithfully.
Showing them, however imperfectly, what the love and goodness of God look like in everyday life.
I don’t know how many years I have left on this earth.
My dad certainly didn’t know he would only have 34.
But I do know this.
Forty years from now, the things our children remember probably won’t be how much money we made, how impressive our careers were, or how many things we accumulated.
They’ll remember how we made them feel.
Whether we loved them.
Whether we were there.
Whether they knew they mattered.
I know that’s what I remember about my dad.
And if you’re a father reading this who feels like you’re falling short, I want you to hear something.
God loves you.
He sees you.
He hasn’t forgotten you.
And He still has a plan and a purpose for your life.
You have something to offer your family that nobody else can offer in quite the same way.
Don’t underestimate it.
And don’t give up.
Dad, it’s been 40 years. I still miss you.
I hope that in the years I’ve been given, I’ve passed along at least a little of the love you gave me.
And if sharing our story encourages even one father to go home, hug his kids, tell his wife he loves her, or simply keep going another day, then opening up about something this personal was worth it.