Father’s Day, which is June 16 this year, is always bittersweet for me. My father died 26 years ago, and we buried him the day before Father’s Day. I cannot think about the upcoming holiday without remembering that terrible loss, but I also remember the faith of my father. His love for God defined his life in many ways.

I consider myself lucky to have had him in my life. He was my father, my dad, and when I needed his powerful arms around me, my daddy. He was a strong yet gentle protector, my defender and my role model, as a father should be and as God teaches fathers to be.

The faith of my father was quiet but deeply held. He took the Bible seriously and taught me to take it seriously, as well. He loved me unconditionally, had the patience of the biblical Job and rarely became angry. The only time I really incurred my dad’s wrath was when I disrespected my mother.

But even then, he wasn’t violent. He was angry and upset and disappointed by my behavior and made it clear that I had hurt my mother, which hurt him as well. Such behavior was unacceptable, and he would not tolerate it, he said. My mother loved me, and he expected me to treat her with respect. His tone and demeanor told me he meant business.

My mother could make me angry at times, but Dad could do nothing wrong in my child’s eyes. I thought every man was like Dad and was convinced that my future husband would be exactly like him. Only later did I discover how wrong I was.

By my teen years, I had adopted the teenage view that my parents weren’t as wise and wonderful as I had previously thought. By my 20s, I held a more realistic view of them, especially after my own children were born.

I also realized that a child can never peel back the layers and really know their parents’ innermost secrets and thoughts. But I’m convinced that living with my father and mother for 18 years life gave me insight into their character.

I am convinced that their unwavering Christian faith and moral code were genuine. Their faith-based values guided me, and their unconditional love and support made me strong. They deserved every bit of love and respect that I could give them in return.

Life with My Father

There were four of us in my family. We were like many small-town, middle-class white Southerners in the 1950s, although my parents strongly disagreed with the racist views of our neighbors.

Mother was a stay-at-home mom who kept house and cared for my younger sister and me, while Dad was our town’s assistant postmaster. He wasn’t in love with his job. He didn’t even like it, but he made a good living that gave us a stable and secure lifestyle. Only later did I recognize the sacrifice he made by remaining in that job for nearly four decades.

Dad never sat down and preached God and church to me, but I witnessed the faith of my father in different ways. He did read bedtime Bible stories from a large picture book when I was quite young. And he often studied his well-worn Bible, usually opening it on the kitchen table with pen in hand and note papers spread everywhere. He even began writing a book about it in later life. And he prayed quite frequently.

It would be nice to have memories of heart-to-heart conversations with him about faith, but they weren’t essential. He lived his Christianity, and I prefer that to words.

The Faith of My Father

My father’s religious background was a mystery to me. I know his mother read the Bible every day because she was usually reading it when I arrived at her house after school, and she often talked with me about that day’s scriptures. I knew even less about my paternal grandfather’s religious beliefs, as he died when I was eight.

Even looking at Dad’s three brothers didn’t tell me much about the religious training he received. Dad became a Baptist in adulthood, while one brother joined the Church of Christ, another became Presbyterian and the other, Methodist.

They were solidly Christian but had differing religious views when it came to the details. Non-Christians might think the four denominations were all the same, but they really weren’t.

My family of four lived in the heart of the Bible Belt, and most families in our community attended church every Sunday and Wednesday. At least they did in my world.

Even the most ungodly people in town showed up in their finest clothes for Sunday morning services. By a certain age, I knew who those people were and at least some of their sins, and I marveled at their hypocrisy.

As for my father, Sunday was a day for nourishing his faith and spending time with his family. We were staunch Baptists, and Dad was undoubtedly the staunchest one in the family.

Even my young self knew God was very important to him. It may have been his love for God that gave me a good reason to love the Lord as well.

My father wasn’t a perfect man, but I never faulted him. No one is perfect, after all. My greatest complaint was his perfectionism and OCD tendencies. Once, my mother asked me to iron a shirt for him.

I carefully ironed it to my satisfaction, only to hand it to Dad and be made aware of the wrinkles I missed. After being sent back to the ironing board several times, I told Dad I couldn’t do any better and asked Mother to please find someone else to iron his shirt next time.

Dad’s other flaws were equally minor, at least in my eyes. Rather than dwelling on them, I look at his well-lived life that centered on these qualities:

• An unwavering belief in God
• Deeply held, faith-based moral values
• Compassion and love for others
• A willingness to forgive
• Humility
• Respect
• A willingness to listen to others
• A rejection of hatred

In the decade of my teens, the 1960s, I learned positive lessons from his calm and reasonable reactions to the hatred that was exploding in the world around us.

I’m glad he cannot see the country in which I live. The hatred that permeates 21st-century America and the angry rantings that infuse today’s political conversations would greatly disturb him.

Losing My Father

I don’t remember my father ever being sick until he developed Parkinson’s, exacerbated by Alzheimer’s disease, in his 70s. By the time he reached 80, I knew the end was near, but his death still sent shockwaves through me.

A phone call in the middle of the night changed my world. He was dead. I curled up in a rocking chair and trembled for a solid hour before retreating into denial that lasted months. For the first time in my life, I needed anti-depressants.

I still miss him and always will.

As we commemorate Father’s Day 2024, I will probably visit the cemetery where he and my mother are buried and remove the faded flowers from the urns on each side of their gravestone. Then, I will freshen up the gravesite and maybe say a short prayer.

A Simple Father’s Day Prayer

Thank you, dear Lord, for giving me a special father. Please keep him safe in your arms until I see him again. Bless the fathers who are still with their children, and bring comfort to families who are mourning the loss of a father.

We ask that you heal children, whether young or old, who have never known a father’s love. Give the men who are struggling to be good fathers the wisdom, courage and strength they need. And give their children the wisdom to recognize their efforts. Help us be faithful to you and strong in our faith. In Christ’s name. Amen.