During World War II, young Wayne Watkins served as a soldier in lands far away. It was a challenging time for the men of our country and equaling difficult for the women and families back home, just as we have seen in these present days. In the 40’s, soldiers didn’t have the option of a plane ride back home for furlough after a few months. Once you shipped out, you pretty much stayed until the end. After being away about six months, Wayne received the telegram he had been waiting for—”Daughter born stop So proud stop”.

My mother showed me pictures of my soldier dad. I wonder how that little girl understood that the picture represented a real man. And what was a daddy anyway? Eighteen months later that soldier came home from war and entered my life.

I have fond memories of my growing up years. Oh, Dad was strict, had definite opinions about things, and could get angry at injustices, but what I remember most was his love, his hugs and goodnight kisses, his smile, his encouragement, and the way he reveled in each of my accomplishments. He loved my mother dearly. They had disagreements but never raised their voices to each other. He was gentle and kind.

I have come to understand that not everyone has that kind of dad. Some get drunk, are unfaithful to their wives, or preoccupied with work. Some are abusive or simply gone. It’s hard for me to totally understand the heartache that this brings and the negative influence that lingers, even when the child has done nothing to deserve such neglect. I am grateful that I didn’t have those hardships to overcome, but stand in awe of those who do.

I was about seven years old when we had moved yet another time in my growing up years. Our old two-story house had wonderful nooks and crannies everywhere—the kind of house where children would love to play hide and seek. Next to my bedroom was a large, box-shaped closet with a slanted roof. I loved to play in there.

Everything was fine in the day time, but at night, it felt scary going up to my bedroom in the dark. Mom and Dad would coax me to go upstairs. Some nights were okay, but many nights I would put up a big fuss. I guess we didn’t have a two-way switch at the bottom of the steps. One night my dad said, “I tell you what I’ll do, I’ll hold out my hand and then you can go up. He extended his arm toward the stairs. I looked at that big hand reaching out to protect me and walked right up the steps. No fear.

I don’t remember if that became a routine, but I do remember the confidence I felt as I walked on up those steps. As I reflect back to that time, I’m amazed at the sense of trust I had in this loving father.

I’ve heard that we tend to view our Heavenly Father in similar ways to our earthly father. Blessed are those who have good models in their dads. And blessed are those who learn to overcome poor examples and grow to trust in God’s love and security.

And so on this Father’s Day, even though I lost him 16 years ago, I remember the dad who made it so easy for me to transfer childlike trust in my earthly father to faith in my Heavenly Father. Thanks, Dad.

~ Joyce Elaine ~