Daydreamers and dads

When I was a boy at school, dreams were given little value. They were the possession of scatterbrains. Daydreams were mere boyish fantasies-silly unrestrained notions tied to the unattainable. As manhood approached, it was expected that "goals" would overtake and replace childish "dreams." Dreamers stared out classroom windows on sunny days and were eventually caught under the rude crack of a teacher's yardstick.

There is a sadness in discouraging schoolboys from dreaming. It seems so stifling. Those who stifle are well motivated, even necessary. They believe that daydreams can lead to unregulated minds. Children must not fritter away their early years. Still, there's a sadness in discouraging daydreamers; it paves the way for such mediocre imaginations.

I was a scatterbrained schoolboy whose daydreams occupied vast portions of my early years, much to the frustration of my scholarly and level-headed father. Those years were sweet years filled with warm summer months swimming with chums, evening family devotions and Sunday school, where I learned that God loved me. Each night my loving father tucked me into bed. He would embrace me, his scatterbrained daydreamer, and close my days with words that still bring tears to my eyes when I hear them:

"The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face shine upon you, and be gracious to you; the Lord lift His countenance upon you, and give you peace."

He was, of course, quoting a favorite scripture (Numbers 6:24-26), but it was as though he was making it up just for me. And I could have sworn-because he always said that prayer from his heart-that the words were fresh and new each time he uttered them. I loved my dad and almost worshipped the ground he walked upon. It was a time when there was a straight forward order to life, a time when sorrow was short-lived; heartbreak did not cut to the bone, but that was yesteryear.

Now, the days can be so much meaner and mistakes so very permanent, not like the simple goofs of childhood. Men put themselves up as gods now and deny the Deity. In doing so, sorrows have a longevity; people's heartbreaks can almost be too great to bear. Mistakes can't be wiped away like a boy's regretful tears. Mistakes are rooted out by drastic measures such as divorce and abortion.

The boy's body that was once so agile, willowy and healthy is gone É I can hardly walk anymore. My father has been in his grave for nearly 30 years, but the memory of him holding me in his arms, whispering that gentle prayer is still clear. I can't count the times I have thanked God for giving him to me. That he was with me a short time, is irrelevant. He was a dad par excellence!

He dearly loved the Lord and our family home was joyful and Christ-centered. Prayer filled the rooms of our house.

My father taught me about compassion, even to the unlovely. He gave me a sense of fair play, and, through him, I learned the meaning of words like "responsibility" and "duty." My father showed me, by his example, the honor there is in serving others, and standing up for rightness-even if it means being at odds with those around me and taking their scorn. My dad taught me to be thankful for what I have and not lament for that which I do not possess. From him I discovered the value of honest self-examination. But most of all, my father taught me that there is great peace in being right with God, through believing in His Son and the price He paid at Calvary.

A dozen winters ago, on a bright and sunny afternoon, when my own children were small we visited the lonesome country cemetery where my father is buried. We stood at the foot of his grave. My son slowly read the words of his grandfather's epitaph, whom he never met: "He served God and man." He looked up at me and asked, "Is that true, Dad?"

"Sure is, son."

"Would Grandpa have liked me?"

"He would have loved you."

"I can hardly wait to get to Heaven to see him."

"Me too."

He squinted, cupped his hands around his eyes, and looked up into the blue sky. "Can God see me right now?" he asked. I assured him that, indeed, God could see him. He ran across the cemetery to an adjacent field and began spelling something in the unruffled blanket of snow, in giant letters stomped out with his boots. I spent a few more minutes at the grave site in prayer and contemplation of the wonderful Christian heritage my father had given me. As my daughter and I headed back toward the car, I called my son. There in the snow facing up toward the sky, were the large words, "I luv you," made from his footprints. My son had converted a daydream and snow into a love letter to God.

That night I tucked my daydreamer in bed, held him in my arms, and prayed an old familiar prayer: "The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face shine upon you, and be gracious to you..."

Men, keep the faith. Lovingly teach your children God's way, and be a Christian example. When we embrace our children, the future is in our arms. They are Christ's Church of the next generation. We have a great faith and heritage to hand to them. Lead happy and Christ-centered homes. What a splendid privilege God has given us!

Mark Pickup is a writer from Beaumont, Alberta.