My earthly father never said much. A man of few words yet I know he loved me.
As a twelve-year-old little leaguer, I’d led the league in hitting but had not hit one home run. I knew my father was proud of me for my hitting prowess yet he sent messages of the thrill it would be to see me hit a home run.
My twelfth birthday just happened to fall on the day of our first all-star game. I was the leadoff hitter and on the first pitch of the game drove a ball over the center-field fence for my first home run. As I rounded second base I heard a resounding voice yelling above the little crowd cheering, “That’s my boy! That’s my boy!”
I looked up as I rounded third base and my father already with the ball in his hand was standing pounding the ball in the air yelling, “That’s my boy! That’s my boy!”
In that moment I knew he was proud of me and loved me, not for the home run. The emotion of how he really felt about me was being displayed for all to witness.
That was my Bar Mitzvah, my right of passage; my father’s approval with those words, “That’s my boy!”
Seven years later, my father and I were on a trip from Southern California to Fort Lewis Washington. I was now a nineteen-year-old young man who had recently enlisted in the United States Army. My father decided to help me drive my truck north to my permanent post.
We hardly spoke during the two day, 1100 mile, drive up the interstate. I can’t recall any of our conversations; nothing.
I do remember walking to my barracks, turning and seeing my father wiping tears from his eyes as he got in the taxi to go to the airport. Moments before he had given me a hug, the kind of hug I remember 45 years later as I sit waiting for a train to take me home from work.
He hugged me and said, “I love you son.” I don’t remember anything else. I just remember him getting in the taxi wiping tears off his face.
The taxi drove off.
We had a falling away in the last 30 years of his life. He passed away.
I realize as I sit waiting for the train with tears streaming down my face, emotions spilling from my guts that sometimes words speak louder than actions.
I have fallen in love with written words. I love to write. I’m not very adept with spoken words or actions. I do know words are an effective tool for communicating emotion.
I grew up a broken man in many respects but I know that my father loved me even in my brokenness.
When I doubt the love of my heavenly Father I remember those words; “That’s my boy! I love you son.”
Jesus holds me in his arms, I’m three years old, exhausted from a day of play and activity, he rocks me. His hand holds my head against his chest, I listen to the blood pumping through his heart. It’s soothing. I rest quietly against his chest as he reads the Bible to me.
The words from his mouth are going into my spirit yet I’m too young to comprehend with my mind. I rest, I listen. His voice speaks words of life over me, blessings; truth. He rocks me as he reads.
Jesus nurtures and comforts me, he pours himself into me.
His actions and his words align as I rest in his arms receiving the fullness of our Father’s blessing. His love for me displayed by his touch, his nurturing actions. His words of truth spring forth from the pages of the Book.
His investment in me is more precious than gold as I lay listening to his heartbeat. I can feel His Spirit sealing the words in my heart as I sit in his arms listening to words I don’t comprehend.
I drool on Jesus’ chest as I drift off to sleep.
Jesus whispers, “That’s my boy! I love you son.”
I see Jesus rocking me as I sleep wrapped in his arms of love.
I think Jesus does his best work in me when I’m asleep in his arms.
Psalm 103.13, Genesis 28.15, Psalm 68.5, 1 Corinthians 8.6, Isaiah 64.8, James 1.17, 2 Corinthians 1.3-4, Ephesians 4.6, John 14.9-11, John 10.30, and John 14.26
Featured Image by Ben Hershey on Unsplash
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