A Joy to Come Home

I’m gushy, I admit. I have no qualms expressing affection or appreciation where it is due. So, here is my tribute to the man God gave me to teach me of Himself.

He may be uncomfortable with too much of the story, so I will be respectfully ambiguous. He didn’t have the home he made for me. Daily life was a daily strain. He didn’t have the father he was to me. An alcoholic he did his best to respect, and a stepfather he did his best to not make angry. His home was characterized by chaos, unpredictability, uncertainty, and pain.

He has told me little in detail of the noise and hurt that was home. And what he has wells up inside me grief on his behalf and a feeling of remarkable gratitude for God’s grace in him. He never spoke ill of anyone. He never blamed the inherent personal struggles on his past circumstances. He allowed a God-ordained trial to make him a God-honoring man. He brought peace out of chaos, stability out of uncertainty, healing from pain, joy out of trial.

When we were growing up, he would always say that he wanted our home to be a place it never was for him, somewhere we were excited to return to. He succeeded. God, through my father, made a home of energetic laughter, constant joy, valuable conversation, and ceaseless love. My father is proof that we are not products of our past or those around us, but products of our submission to Jesus and His Person in us.

Dad, thanks for making it a joy to come home.

Ps. Sorry for embarrassing you.