Father’s love

I wore gloves to walk up to the university campus this afternoon. I’d be lying if I said they didn’t help. I’d also be lying if I said my hands felt good.

The wind from the north is piercing. And it promises worse to come. I would know that—even if the wannabe celebrity weather people weren’t shouting the news of the coming winter storm at the top of the Internet’s voice.

The volume of wind was shocking to the face and lungs as I walked toward my goal, struggling more for breath, perhaps, than most. It cut right through my thin gloves and coat with bone-chilling directness, leaving pain and immobility in its wake.

I didn’t think I’d play the piano this afternoon. My fingers were stiff, and a couple of the joints hurt long after I wrapped them around the bowl of warm soup prepared for my lunch.

But my mind has been working on a theme today—a theme of the Father’s love and provision. And, there’s a tune I know…

So I sat at the piano and worked my way—painfully at first—through the notes and chords. It’s a piece I’ve heard most of my life. I played this particular arrangement when I was twelve or thirteen years old, not knowing there were words that went with the tune.

You might know it as Londonderry Air. Or, as Danny Boy. Perhaps (if you were a member of a school band), you know it as Irish Tune from County Derry.

But me—I’m from a church-going background, the son of a (then) lay pastor. We learned church songs. Hymns. Maybe a new song or two from Bill Gaither, or a Southern Gospel Group.

I heard the first words that I knew went with this tune as a teenager. Dottie Rambo wrote them.

“Amazing grace shall always be my song of praise,
For it was grace that bought my liberty.
I do not know just how He came to love me so.
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need.

I shall forever lift my eyes to Calvary
To view the cross where Jesus died for me.
How marvelous the grace that caught my falling soul!
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need.” *

When my oldest brother and I played an instrumental version of Dottie’s song in a piano/organ duet in a morning worship service, I couldn’t understand why one man approached me after the service and wanted to know why we were playing a secular song like Danny Boy in church. In retrospect, I agree it is a bit difficult to make out what lyrics are intended to be communicated when just an old grand piano and a Hammond organ are playing the tune and harmony.

It wasn’t until I was a young adult that I learned the lyrics to Danny Boy, and even later, that I understood the words were from a father to his son, going off to war with little hope of his returning.

“Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling.
It’s you, it’s you must go, and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
It’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow.
Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy I love you so.”

If, while you listen to the little tune I’ve recorded, you want to consider either set of lyrics in your head, I have no objection. Truth be told, if you’re thinking about the lyrics, you won’t be listening closely to my stumbling, halting rendition. And that’s okay with me.

Either way, you’ll be thinking of the heart of a father who loves his child so very much and waits with open arms for his or her return.

It’s the heart of a Father who watches and protects us against that day when, all dangers passed and all journeys over, He’ll welcome us into His presence.

He watches and protects against even monster winter storms. And yes, against the occasional twinge of arthritic joints.

And we shall dwell in the House of the Lord forever.

“So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” (Luke 15:20, NIV)

I was ten years old. As my family, seven strong, sat around the dinner table that fall night, we were surprised at Dad’s words. Well, the five kids were, anyway.

“I’ve got five dollars to give to each one of you. There’s just one catch. You have to write me a note and tell me what you want to buy with it. If you don’t write me a note, I won’t give you the money.”

Five dollars! In 1967 money, that’s almost fifty dollars today.

Five dollars for each of us! We left the table, little minds spinning with the possibilities. Even as we headed for bed that night, the ideas were all jumbled in our heads. My brother and I talked excitedly as we got into our little twin-size erstwhile bunkbeds, across the room from each other.

Wait. There’s got to be a catch. He’ll want it to be something worthwhile, won’t he? I bet I can’t get all the candy and coke I want. (I did grow up in Texas, so you understand “coke” is any fizzy drink, right?) I bet it needs to be something like a book. Or, school supplies.

I didn’t write anything that night, but I didn’t get much sleep either. My brain kept leaping to new ideas and, just as quickly, rejecting them, believing that the offer might be rescinded for such a flaky or irresponsible idea. My benefactor was not keen on flaky or irresponsible.

At some time during the night, the temperature outside my South Texas home having dropped below 60 degrees, I felt the chill, and I reached for the scratchy wool military surplus blanket at the foot of the bed.

It was warm, but it wasn’t comfy. Not snuggly. You’d be much more likely to describe it as itchy than comfy. I never liked that blanket.

Blanket!

That was it! I knew what I would spend my money on!

Sleep finally took me, but when the sun rose and Mom called up the stairs for all the drowsy-eyed boys to get out of bed, I needed no second call. I dressed and tromped down the steep treads as fast as I could, sitting at the dining table to check the Sears and Roebuck catalog, before hurriedly scribbling a note for my dad.

“I’ll spend my $5 on a soft, thermal blanket with satin edging. Baby blue or something close.”

Approved! I got my blanket!

I don’t remember how long I used that blanket, but I loved it. It was soft and comforting, warm in the winter and cool enough in the summer to leave rolled up beside my body while I slept.

As I think of it now, it was kind of like a hug from my Dad anytime I wanted one. I may or may not have thought that way about it then.

Nearly fifty years later, I got a check in the mail one fall day. It was from the same man who gave me those five dollars all those years before. This check was for five hundred dollars.

He didn’t ask what I would spend the money on before sending it.

No reason; just because.

I bought a new recliner. My Dad loved a recliner. I do, too. I was sure he would approve of my use for his gift.

Somehow, when I sit in that recliner, now with a slipcover over the damaged and cracking leather, it still feels a little like getting a hug from the man, now absent.

I don’t want to preach.

No, really. I don’t.

So, I won’t.

And the Teacher said to them:

“So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask Him?”
(Matthew 7:11, NLT)

I know.

It kind of feels like a hug, doesn’t it?

And, I’m guessing you could use one of those right about now.

“‘For I know what I have planned for you,’ says the Lord. ‘I have plans to prosper you, not to harm you. I have plans to give you a future filled with hope.'”
(Jeremiah 29:11, NET)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Before the Storm

Blanketed in Love