Volume 3, Issue 6

June, 2001

Page 2

good points. Maybe I wept because of what could have been. I wanted desperately to love my dad, if only he would let me. I wanted him to love his grandchildren, and allow them to bring some happiness into his life; but, he seemed unconcerned. The simple truth is that drinking and having what the world considers to be a good time were more important to my dad than anything else. Consequently, he missed out on the real joys of life. He never enjoyed the love of his sons or grandchildren. He never knew the joys of sharing their accomplishments or the camaraderie of sympathizing with them over their setbacks. He never knew the thrill of holding his grandchildren in his lap, hearing the words, "Granddaddy, I love you very much." He never knew what it was to sit around the Thanksgiving table with his entire family . . . to share in the laughter . . . to feel the closeness that comes from family ties . . . to hold the hand of the mother and grandmother of his offspring and say, "We have been blessed." I guess maybe that is why I wept. Not so much because of what he did not give me, but because what he himself had missed.
When I became a father, I made up my mind to give my children what my dad never gave me. I have been the beneficiary. I have sat at the feet of my son as he preached

My Dad wasn't a Christian. He and my mother never got along. They separated a number of times when I was very young, and separated for the final time when I was twelve. Obviously, I never had the kind of relationship with my father that many children enjoy. I recall how I used to envy my friends who came form homes where their  mother and dad stayed together. Through my early years, I longed . . . for a home where I could feel a sense of security . . . for a dad who would take me to a ballgame or the amusement park . . . who would encourage me, and tell me he loved me. Only one time did my dad come to see me play, and on that occasion, he was drunk and embarrassed me. I became a rebellious young man. On eight different occasions, I was  arrested and put in jail. When my dad died, he did not leave either of his sons one dime. His children were not one of his top priorities.
While attending my dad's funeral in Duluth, Minnesota, I wept. Why? Well, whatever had happened, he was my dad. I had a special feeling for him. Like almost all people, he had many