There is a special relationship between fathers and children. I am becoming more cognizant of this as time passes. My father is a poor Yankee carpenter. He made his home in northern Minnesota, where the northern lights are sometimes visible as early as September. He kept us fed and the roof over our heads. He provided for my mother, two brothers, and three sisters. My father is worthy of my honor I will do my best to expound what I am learning about our relationship.
I am a father myself now. My daughter is nearly twenty one. In the passing of those years I have learned about my father. I see in me those attributes that I took for granted in my own father. I feel the pain when she hurts and remember seeing the same feeling reflected in his eyes. I feel the elation when she excels and recall the pride my own father displayed. Her comprehension of complex matters amazes me and I recall the satisfaction shown by my father when understanding flickered in my own mind. I feel the pleasure when she gets that 'A', catches that fish, learns a new dance or Bible verse and can relate it (finally) to those times when my father shared such moments with me.
I have learned, through time, how my father gave his life for me. He gave his life as surely as if he had physically died for our family. He never told me what he was doing. He just did it. He intervened when I was in trouble, never expecting so much as a 'thank you'. He interceded when I needed help, and I never knew. He watched over, protected, and somehow left me thinking I had done it 'all by myself'.
Now I am older. I have a child of my own. Every day from her I learn how my father stood in the gap. I learn how my father took the flack. I learn how I related to God and even (to a small extent) how God relates to me. Yet it all relates back to my father, a Godly farmer, in a sparsely populated county in the cold north. My father is my hero and if my daughter grows up to feel even partially as positively about me as I feel about him, I will not have lived in vain.