Fathers and children. My dad and my husband. The raising of families and the men at the forefront.
We’d looked, we kids had, to our dad as provider. And now, to my husband as provider as well. Providers, they, of both money and food. And not only that, but protection and safety. Of wisdom and love. Of, really (bottom line), a name and identity.
No matter how good was the earthly one you got, he could never be perfect. Couldn’t meet all the needs. He’d have faults, flaws and failures. (And mothers did, too). But this is what came yesterday in my kitchen. Just this–when you’re His kid, every day is Father’s Day.
Every day. Father’s Day.
Like that, my thoughts returned to the summer that lesson had begun. To the times spent alone, just Him, just me and the books.
It was in an Andrew Murray classic, “With Christ in the School of Prayer,” that I’d found it, the truth that our power in prayer is based on His Fatherhood, and the prayer that Jesus had prayed. “Our Father, which is in Heaven…”
A Father. In Heaven. A child, and His care.
For weeks, it lingered in my mind, soaking in, sinking down. When worry came knocking (anxiety, too) on its heels would come this, “Oh, yes. I have a Father.” And, “Ah, but I have a Father.”
What a pivotal truth; a foundational belief. This bedrock sure-knowing, well, it made all the difference.
It makes all the difference, us knowing this fact. That we’ve been adopted. Been picked out. Been chosen. That our Father, He’s named us and says who we are.
He’s set us apart, given gifts, then empowered. And His love–oh, His love with which we are covered as He sings (yes, He does) over us.
Yesterday was Father’s Day. Today it is, too. The day after that and the next and the next, all Father’s. All covered. All His.