If I’m counting correctly, Dad, this is your
50th Father’s Day—a half-century of paternal wisdom passed down to your
in April in the mid-1950s, my brothers and I came along like clockwork
in two-year intervals. We made you the Fred McMurray of East Brainerd
in Chattanooga, Tenn.
Honeycutt had his hands full on Father’s Day 1959, holding Lee and
coaxing smiles from Frank (center) and Mike for a keepsake photo. |
for all the time you spent with me as a child—for teaching me how to
throw a baseball and to run a convincing “buttonhook.” For explaining
the fine art of the “bump-and-run” chip shot with a seven iron and how
to catch a wave just so at the beach. For shooting all those baskets in
the driveway and playing H-O-R-S-E until the floodlights came on. For
forgiving me when I wrecked the car. For the honest “sex talk” when I
was shy and didn’t really want to talk about it.
Our home was a
safe place to grow up. I don’t want to be overly romantic and pretend
that ours was a family free from problems —you’ve been a Lutheran
Christian all your life and know what a lie that would be. But you and
mom did provide a place to grow and discover and learn, even from
failing. And for that I am truly thankful.
But here’s the thing.
Have you ever noticed? As a nation is rightfully grateful this month
for the sacrifices of fathers across the land, recall what Jesus said:
“Don’t think that I’ve come to bring peace to the earth. I haven’t come
to bring peace, but rather a sword. For I have come to set a man
against his father, and a daughter against her mother” (Matthew 10:34-35
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