Fairly early in my childhood, my mother, bless her, became aware of two significant facts.
One, anywhere her husband went – and his work carried him all over the Texas prairie, the Louisiana basins, and the Tennessee hills – his young son was sure to want to follow. And, two, dad would bring us both back alive.
Everything else was up for grabs.
By the time I was seven years old, my dad had plucked me from a runaway bronco, yanked me from a blazing truck, guided me through a mile-wide thorn thicket, found me wandering lost in a dust storm, and rolled with me over a medium-high cliff.
Scathed, but smiling, we always came marching home again.
And, somewhere along the way, I realized that my father wasn’t afraid of anyone, or anything. A very good thing for any child to see, and to know.
My father turns 84 this week. He was, for many years, a minister of recreation – an area of evangelical service that he helped pioneer, and that he has now lived long enough to see removed, like so many forms of ministry, from the current church’s increasingly minimalist menu.
Recreation ministers understand that some people who won’t bring their children to Bible study, will sign them up for a soccer program.
That a woman who won’t join a prayer group will sometimes join other women to do crafts projects.
And that a lot of men who wouldn’t think of slipping into a worship service will come down to the church to play basketball on Saturday mornings, and listen to a short devotional, if that’s part of the game plan.
These people will often make friends with the Christians who participate in these activities, and through them, find Christ.
Still, to many, a “minister of recreation” sounds like someone paid to play and pray. Actually, it’s more like a ministry to Rapunzel … because for most folk, Christian and non-Christian alike, sports and games offer the chance to let down one’s hair. And – if you’ve read anything about Samson, or Absalom – you know what a handful people with loose locks can be.
If you really want to know a man’s character, watch him take five strokes getting out of the sand trap … lose a close one at the plate … take an elbow in the mouth on his way up for a rebound.
If you’d like an authentic piece of a woman’s mind, watch her when the ceramic kiln cracks her decorative pottery … when her child gets banged up on the soccer field … when her over-aggressive husband fouls up three rallies in a row on the mixed doubles court.
If you want to know what’s in a young one's heart, wait with a teenager for the parent who finally comes to pick him up 90 minutes after the camp bus leaves … or watch a little day-camper’s face when his mom turns away in the middle of “Guess what we saw today!”
My father is a good man.
I grew up watching him at his work: managing ball teams and athletic facilities, organizing craft programs and sports tournaments, camps and bowling leagues and roller-skating parties; cleaning bathrooms and weight rooms and steam rooms and saunas; recruiting players and coaching teams and procuring equipment and counseling lost souls of every age and kind.
I saw that he worked hard … a rare enough commodity in the world of ministry. More than that, though, he worked quietly.
Lining a ball field, mending broken racquet strings, mapping out tournament pairings, washing sweaty towels and uniforms, wading into burgeoning free-for-alls, unlocking doors, turning up lights … he didn’t require the approval or applause of others to know that what he was doing was important.
He did what he knew was right, and that seemed important enough.
He was – he has always been – content to serve, and to be about his Father’s business.
Re-creation, after all, is God’s business. He, too, draws the lines … mends broken strings … maps out destinies and pairings … washes filthy garments clean … sits patiently with the lonely and the hurting … intercedes between angry people … turns up the Light and unlocks the Door … works quietly in a thousand ways no one sees or knows.
He has yanked me from the fires of hell … plucked me from runaway passions … guided me through thickets of confusion and storms of doubt … picked me up after some nasty falls.
He has told me there is nothing to fear.
And I know that He will be coming back again.
I don’t always know God when I see Him, but I know Him when I see my father.
I have seen a good man … quiet faith … simple joys … selfless love … tireless service.
I would follow that man’s God anywhere.
And know that He will bring me back Alive.
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