For Father's Day...Belated I Know!

When I was a kid, I thought my Dad was SO NOT funny. I remember the phone ringing upstairs and my Dad lunging up the stairs two at a time. A pastor in a normal, middle-class tri-level in NW Indiana, we'd hear him shout, "County Jail, Warden Speaking." And then we'd hear him murmur something...Mom and I would dash up the stairs yelling, "ROOGERR!" and "DAAD!" simultaneously. Turns out he'd say "County Jail, Warden Speakin'" in a fake southern drawl and THEN pick up the phone and whisper a hello. Mom and he always got a good giggle out of it. I would just roll my eyes and say, "grownups." His antics in answering the phone would continue pretty much my whole life, ranging from the pizza delivery company to the pest control company to the morgue. Sometimes he'd actually answer the phone with this crazy talk. The stammering on the other end was almost too much for him to handle. He'd crack a smile and quickly shift gears for the unsuspecting victim on the other end of the phone line. Whenever he was paying a bill over the phone, he'd spell out his first name and then say, "Box. Like cardboard." He always got a laugh for that one. My older sister Corrie says it to this day. I wonder what she'll say when she gets married.

Honestly with his profession and personality, you'd never suspect my Dad has as keen a sense of humor as he does. If something is the most amazing thing to ever transpire on the face of this planet, he'll say in monotonous syllables, "That's great babe." I used to think this was totally rude. Now I know he's a little tongue-in-cheek mixed with ultra-laid back.

From ages four until I turned twelve, we'd sing at the local nursing home ever Friday. There were three girls in my family old enough to sing. That's really where I learned to sing harmony. I remember my sister telling me to just "hear" it. And "hear" it we did, to songs like "In the Garden" and "Tis' So Sweet to Trust in Jesus." If we didn't sing loud enough, we got a spanking. "But if you sing loud enough," Dad would smile, "you get a Coke!" Mmmm...I remember those cold coke cans. I'd struggle to pop open the metal ring, but the cool fizz that came was worth the bruised little fingers. I'd try to chug it, like my dad's friend Chuck after one of their softball games, but I could only get a couple of gulps down before my stomache started to ache. I never got a spanking for singing too soft at the nursing home. I was the "loud one" and it was easy to avoid punishment on that end. Now Corrie, she had a small frame and an even smaller voice. To get her to sing above a whisper was like pulling teeth. Dad would cajole and prod and push and finally resort to spanking every week. But after four emotional weeks like this, well, all her kicking-n-screamin must've helped her lungs to just sprout out real huge, cuz' after that, well, she never did have a problem singing loudly again.

The only thing I didn't like about the nursing home was the smell and the required hugs. I went through a "Don't TOUCH me!" stage for about four years when I was younger. I still don't know what caused it. Along with singing loud enough, we were required to hug every neck in the room at this nursing home. It wouldn't have been so bad except there were some people so drugged up that hugging them was like hugging a drooling corpse. Or worse, some of them would just hang on for dear life not wanting to let you go! If that particular long-hugger was a stout woman, well, you got a nose-full of bossom for an indefineable amount of time that seemed like eternity. Gross.

What I loved about the nursing home was the candy and the motions. Two of the little ladies were well into their hunderedth year. They'd keep little plastic baggies of mints and butterscotch with them to give to us every week. I loved the butterscotch. We got to do motions with several of the songs we sang. We'd sing "He's a Peach of a Savior," to the tune of "The Lord's Army." Each time we sang it three times. We'd sing it once at a normal pace, once in slow motion and once at super sonic speed. We also loved singing Father Abraham so fast that when we spun around we'd lose our balance and end up falling on the floor. Dad would allow a little bit of foolishness, but we knew we only had about 30 seconds of it before we got the slight eye squint, which meant our precious Coke reward was on the line. I always thought his slight squint was really him imagining the size of the spanking stick he'd use on us. When I was eight we went to one of those pioneer exhibitions. It was one of those things where they had rows of tents with different exhibits showing you how the pioneers lived. They had corn being ground for meal, clothes being washed on a board and hot wax being stirred for homemade candles. There was also a tent where they burned words and designs onto wood. This was my favorite tent. I loved the smell of burning wood and thought the swirl of roses on a chair was so pretty. I would sit and trace the swirls with my finger while munching an ear of rosted corn. I really wanted one of the little rocking chairs they made. Dad and I stood there about 15 minutes while he had something made. I don't know why I didn't ask what he was doing. It wasn't til we got back to the car that he showed my mom what he had bought: a large wooden spanking paddle with all of us kids names engraved on it. I knew I hated that stupid tent. It served my dad right when he broke that stupid paddle on my heinie about six months later. Pioneers must not have had kids as obstinate as me.

I remember getting a spanking every day one summer. We got spankings for three things: Disrespect, disobediance and lying. If you think about it, any adolescant misdemeanor can be categorized as one of these three. I think I was most often spanked for disrespect. Well, disrespect and delayed obediance. According to Dad, "Delayed obediance is disobediance." So really it was my mouth and attitude that got me into trouble. I loved to answer my parents serious queries with a lotta' sass. They thought they were so smart. And that whole "delayed obediance" thing was primarily due to draggin my feet...part of my quiet rebellion to do whatever they were asking me to do.

I can't find the exact quote, but somewhere in my youth I remember someone telling me, "It's funny how much your parents will learn from the time you turn 16 until the time you turn 21." I've thought about that so many times since hitting my 20s. I remember thinking I knew so much more than my fuddy-duddy parents. Typical teenager. And then when I turned 21, almost to the day, I'd start to call Dad and ask for advice. We'd even talk about boy stuff. It was always humorous. He'd always ask if the boy knew the Lord. And then he'd just listen. I'd spout off about a particular encounter and he'd just listen. I think he considered this long-suffering on his part. I honestly think he could've done without every detail, but I was bound and determined to make sure he knew what was said to me and how and from whom. At the end of the conversation he'd offer me a verse of Scripture or a little thought. If the verse or thought cut a little too close to home, well, I'd think he was being a little pushy or too churchy. But I'd think on what he said for a few days and invariably call a few days later to apologize for a poor attitude. Mom on the other hand, well, she'd spout off for hours on what I needed to do to chase a boy away or attract him near.

Growing up with four sisters, going to the grocery store with the family was always an interesting ordeal. If Dad took you, you always knew you were getting Hershey's Almond Chocolate bars from the checkout counter because those were his favorite. He'd walk in with the youngest in the grocery cart and the rest of us would roam about, looking for things that we couldn't live without, e.g., sugary cereal, marshmallow creme and frozen pizza. We knew if we begged just right, we'd have a chance of at least getting one item we wanted. When he had finished getting the items on Mom's list, he'd give one sharp, quick whistle. He could have whispered it, and I don't know why, but we'd always hear that whistle and come running. I don't know if any of us ever got a spanking for not responding to the whistle, but if any of us did, I'm sure it was me.

They say that our view of God is largely based on our view of our earthly Father. Honestly, I can't imagine what people do who don't have a good earthly Father. It really makes me sad. I don't think I'm feeling sorry for them. Rather, I just get sad because it was so easy for me to see the Father as good and loving even when punishing. Every time my Dad spanked me he'd say he loved me and hug me afterwards. And amidst the snotty sniffles I'd hug him back. There was one season where I was going through a particularly rebellious stage. Every time Mom or Dad said something, I'd shoot something dicey right back to them. There was all sorts of screaming and door slamming on my part...and furrowed brows and occasionally screaming right back on their part. One day, after a particularly punchy shouting match, i was cooling off by shooting baskets in the driveway. Dad came outside and silently shot baskets next to me. After he'd made one particularly stellar three pointer, I tossed him back his "change." He held the ball in both hands, slowly shifting it around. I could see the wheels spinning in his brain, but there was nothing in this world that would have prepared me for what came next. "Annetta. I love you. You are my responsibility and the Lord has asked me to make my family my priority. If it takes me leaving this church and going somewhere else to make you know Him, I'll do it." And with that, he set the ball down and I lept into his arms for a huge hug while sniveling, "I'm sorry Dad, I won't do it again!" For a moment I had thought lightening was about to strike me. I mean, my Dad giving up his church position because of my poor attitude and razor tongue? Surely leaving the pastorate would have to have more severe repercussions than leaving any other profession?!? But my Dad never had to make good on his promise. After that generous, but scary, offer, I straightened up a little. Our home went from the battlegrounds of World War 111 to intermittent arguments over stupid stuff. It was that conversation with my Dad, more than any other moment in my life, that showed me how much my heavenly Father cares about me. My Dad here was willing to put aside things that were extremely important to him. My heavenly Father offered me His Son.

Maybe it's my Dad's example of who God is that has gifted me with a greater understanding of faith. I mean, it's not hard to imagine God's gonna' catch you if you leap if you have a Dad like mine. I've worked with some pretty phenomenal Christian leaders, a couple of them are the leaders of our century. My Dad is the godliest man I've ever known. I mean, don't get me wrong, he's defnitely gone through he's more infuriating stages. There was that time when I was ten that he was going through a stage where any type of rock beat was from the devil. We had to throw out our Amy Grant cassette tape and records. There was also the no-dating-til-you-are-16 stage. Well, maybe that was smart as they had me for a daughter! There are many moments when he drives me crazy. But there are far more when I am so thankful that he was the one that God placed in my life. When my engagement was called off, Dad and I would sit and talk for hours. Rather, I would talk for hours and he would listen.

It's funny. The older I've gotten, the more I can hear my Dad's voice in the day-to-day. Sometimes I'll be working on something and I'll hear how he would react to it and I'll laugh. The other day I went into a store with exorbant prices for their product. I had to chuckle as I could hear my Dad say, "They sure are proud of their merchandise aren't they?" What's really funny is that I'm writing all this while my Dad is still very much alive. He's still chugging away, loving my Mom, growing in the Lord, emailing a daily Bible Study he writes to a couple hundred people, pastoring a church and really into nutrition. Anytime I want, I can call him and unless he's preaching I know I'll get a listening ear. But more than me telling him, I've come to rely on his telling me. After watching the way he's lived, I've found that I need to hear him more than I need to tell him. The same is true for me and God. I've started to listen a little bit better. I'm trying to quit coming to His Word with a laundry list. Rather, I've found if I look for His character in those pages, well, I'll hear them in the every day in much the same way as I hear my Dads voice. I see things as humorous sometimes now, in the way He would. I love the way He's put together certain people who should have never "worked" but in His divine wisdom, they are a perfect fit. Or the way He continuously gives me a girly-girl for a close friend...such an odd fit for the tom-boy that I am.

I think it's when I DON'T listen for that Voice, when I'm not in a place where I can hear it, that I have issues. I think trying to hear God's Voice with sin in your life is like trying to hear someone talk to you while you've got your hands clamped down securely over your ears. His Voice comes out muffled. Sometimes it ends up as a garbled command, like you'd played a horrible round of Chinese telephone. I've done things in His Name that He didn't want me to do. I did them, in a state of sin, not really listening or walking right with Him. He ended up throwing a few punishments for me in the end.

When I'm trying to hear His Voice, I tend to do what Tony Evans does to prep for a sermon: I read myself full (of Scripture). Pray myself hot. And walk myself empty (mulling over what He is saying). This little routine has a tendency to re-boot my system. At the end, after much confession and listening, well, I can hear that Voice again.

After seminary I was on a church staff in Houston for a couple of years. I loved that church. But towards the end of that time, I started to really fell like God wanted me to step out in faith..that He had more for me. I didn't know what that "more" was, but I knew staying in my comfort zone was not it. I put off leaving the church for about six months. Finally, I told the pastor that I was leaving in eight weeks. I packed my things and left...only to have the Lord open up a cabin for me to stay in Estes Park, Colorado (thank you L&KC!). While there, my routine: Wake and read Scripture for 4-6 hours. Write music for a couple hours in between. Hike to town and around and back, sprinting some for acclimization. Get home in time to grill some of the frozen elk Larry hada left for me in the freezer and prepare dinner of some sorts. Read and write for a couple more hours. Go to bed. Somewhere in the middle of the reading and listening and hiking and writing, well, I learned all sorts of things. He cleared my life of all sorts of dead things in this time. But more than anything, well, I learned what His Voice sounds like. I learned how to recognize it amidst the hustle and the bustle we call life. When I came off of that mountain, roughly 40 days later, I was a different girl. Alone with Him, He had hewn some serious ears into my soul. I think this season was one of the ost fruitful of my life. Since that time, I've pretty much been in the desert. But it was this "Learning to Listen 101" crash course that has kept me on course in the midst of a few years of hell. And it's knowing His character is good, just like I know my Dad's is good, that keeps me beleiving this pain will end one day. My Dad would want the pain to end, after it's done what it's designed to do. God will make this pain end after it's done what it's designed to do, mold my character. Am I sick of this season? OOoh you better betcha. But I also believe with all my heart that it's not forever. I keep telling people He's coming for me and that it'll end. I want to be Prince Caspian's Lucy who doesn't give up on God's promises even when everyone else does. I want to believe no matter what I see with my eyes.

So. As in the words of Joshua, I choose today to continue to press on towards the prize of knowing HIm. I believe. I'm working on hearing. And in the midst of this hearing and believing, I find myself fully alive.