"It's a Father's Sunday"

My son, Dave, told me it happens the same way every year: My Father’s Day gift-request never changes, but it has yet to arrive. When the kids (all in their teens) ask me what I want for Father’s Day, I say, “How about a new gas grill?”

“You’ve been saying you want a gas grill for Father’s Day since I was eight years old,” he says. He’s sixteen now. How he remembers how old he was when my request began is a mystery to me. But I leave it alone because he quickly follows with the explanation that releases the family from responsibility. “You know how it goes Dad. We say, ‘Okay, that’s it! A grill. After all, you’re the ‘grill master!’”

I don’t totally believe the flattery of his “grill master” sobriquet, but I can’t blame the boy. I believe it enough to keep cooking; and he and his siblings, Harrison, Mary-Liz and Madi, love to eat. My four children are almost effusive with their compliments when I bring in their grilled favorites.

“You say the same thing every year.” Dave tries with a measure of success to mimic my voice. “And every year you talk yourself out of the grill. ‘Ahh, you say, I believe this grill can survive another year. Besides, we need to save for vacation.”

So the grill remains one of those “out there” items. And it’s true. The old grill is not that bad. And vacation usually comes shortly after or during Father’s Day, which of course falls on Sunday.

Sundays have been known to hijack Father’s Day. I don’t have grilling on my heart; it’s my “game day.” It’s Sunday; I get to preach, which is a joy, but also a serious responsibility. Sundays do not always come easily for me. Sometimes it seems like there is a conspiracy to keep me from a graceful waltz to the pulpit. Sometimes the journey is more like the stumbling two-step of a novice dancer.

Some sermons come easier than others; some sermons don’t come at all; and some Sundays, like the sermons that accompany them, are there, but fail to launch. This particular Sunday had all the appearance of one of those.

My family and friends sometimes forget that I do work on this day. Dave himself called me on this Sunday with his own personal crisis. He was still in the youth building. The students weren’t going to present the drama during the worship service as planned. “So what’s the problem?” I said as I glanced at my watch, noting that it was less that five minutes before the worship service was to begin.

“Well,” he said, “I’m wearing a plain white T-shirt, you know, for the drama we were going to present but now aren’t. Dad, I don’t want to come to the worship service in a plain white T-shirt. I need to go home and change. And…”

“Dave,” I interrupted, “I’ve kinda got something going on here. Work it out with your sister, and see if she can take you home, change and come back.”

I’m suddenly in the worship center. I’m aggravated because the microphones aren’t working properly, another change in the worship service, in addition to the cancellation of the youth’s presentation, has taken place. And a dear little lady has informed me, on my way into the worship center, that our church is not the church for all this contemporary music. “Thank you for your timing,” I sarcastically mutter to myself on the way into the church sanctuary. I’m not sure where my oldest son and daughter are, and I’m uneasy. My soul is restless. I want to worship but find my soul attacked by the weapon the Enemy uses with such brilliant effectiveness: distractions.

Suddenly as I sit there on the front pew, I feel a reassuring pat on my shoulder. It’s too firm a touch for my wife. I glance back to find Dave’s smiling face. “Hey Dad,” he says as he leans forward to pray for me. He always stops to pray for me in between Sunday School and the worship service. That wonderful habit, interrupted this day by the shirt-change, is resumed. Now, in a whispered voice, he prays, oblivious to the people around him or the T.V. camera behind us.

And with that prayer all is well with my soul. The burden is lifted. Like the lens correction instrument in the optometrist’s office (“Better on one or better on two?”), my vision clicks into focus, crystal clear, 20/20. I feel touched by the Spirit. It came with the prayer of a son.

Father’s Day gifts are like that. Sometimes they don’t come; sometimes they are delayed; sometimes they come early with the touch of the Spirit. The best ones you can only receive with humility. Whether it’s with the prayer of a child, or the smile that says, “I love you,” or the open arms that welcome each of you-- father and child-- back into each other’s good graces, it really makes no difference. They come when they come. We can only wait for the moment. That’s what so much of fatherhood is about: waiting for the time, the time when the Spirit speaks with the gift only a child can bring.