My Friend, My Hero, My Dad

The Extraordinary Influence of an Ordinary Man

by

Stephen Altrogge

My Friend, My Hero, My Dad

Copyright © 2008 Stephen Altrogge

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, except as provided by USA copyright law.

Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from: The Holy Bible: English Standard Version, copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Cover design: Mark Altrogge

First printing, 2008

Printed in the United States of America

Preface

The tiny plastic sled hurtled down the snowy hill, topping out at approximately 642 mph. My body was plastered flat against the sled, like a soldier taking cover from enemy fire, and I clung tightly to keep from being flung off like a rag doll. The icy wind seared my face and my chapped lips were the texture of sandpaper.

The finish line, the bottom of the hill, was approaching rapidly. Victory was close at hand and I could taste it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a shape pulling alongside of me. Curses! It was my arch nemesis, my kryptonite, the one person who could keep me from securing victory and eternal glory. It was my dad.

As he pulled alongside of me, he turned and looked directly into my eyes. There was a maniacal, almost possessed look on his face, and his mouth cracked into a wicked grin. Then he turned forward and began to pass me.

I could sense my chances of victory beginning to slip away. Drastic action was called for. This wasn't just a sled race. This was good against evil, right against wrong, democracy against communism. I couldn't let him win. The fate of the free world hung in the balance.

Using my superhuman strength, I raised my body into the kneeling position. This was the crucial moment. One wrong move and I would be hurled from my sled to an almost certain doom. I perched precariously for a moment, grimacing as the icy wind ripped at my face, using the extra time to calculate the exact distance (2.43 feet) between me and Dad. Then I jumped.

My body hung suspended in space for several seconds, like a snowflake caught in the wind. Time actually stopped and I heard the distant sound of bells ringing. My twelve years of life flashed before my eyes in a brief and very boring sequence of images. Then I began my dive-bomb descent.

The collision was phenomenal, registering as a 9.6 on the Richter scale, and felt as far away as Tokyo and London. It was like two freight trains colliding, both beautiful and terrifying. The impact knocked Dad from his sled, and sent both of us tumbling down the hill in a spray of snow and ice. Our unmanned sleds skittered to the bottom of the hill and came to rest, like riderless horses after an epic battle.

Dad and I lay motionless for a few moments trying to regain our senses, which were laying on the ground about twenty feet away. Silence reigned supreme, broken only by the sound of our labored breathing. I broke the silence with a scream.

“That was awesome!” I yelled. I looked over and saw my dad smiling.

“You cheater,” he said. “I was going to win that one until you hit me.”

I laughed and said, “That was great. Did you see how high I jumped?” We continued this banter as we walked down the hill to retrieve our abandoned sleds. When we reached the bottom, he asked if I was ready to go home.

“Just one more race,” I said. “The winner of this one is champion of the universe.” Dad turned his head and looked towards the mountain summit, debating whether he wanted to make another trek to the top.

“Okay, one more race. Whoever wins this one is the alltime champion of the world.” He put his arm around me and we turned together to make the long, cold hike.

* * *

Fast forward twelve years. My dad is speaking again. “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” he says, slightly mistyeyed. My wife and I strut down the aisle, “We Are Family” blasting over the loudspeakers, our hands lifted high in celebration. The champion of the universe is becoming a man.

During the first three months of our marriage, my wife and I make an astounding discovery: babies happen. Suddenly I'm thrust into a world that's completely foreign to me. I don't know how to be a dad. I'm still trying to remember to take the garbage out every week and put the cap back on the toothpaste. I know as much about parenting as I do about nuclear submarine construction. The thought of parenthood is both exhilarating and terrifying. Proverbs 22:6 commands parents to: “Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.” What a daunting task! How can I, a young, immature man, raise a child in the fear of the Lord? How can I care for the spiritual needs of a child? I can provide for her physically. I can ensure that she has plenty of diapers and cute toys that repeatedly make obnoxious, ear-splitting noises. But how can I effectively teach my baby about the glories of Jesus Christ? How can I make my baby understand the beautiful gospel? I desperately need God's grace.

As I think about the imposing road that lays before me, I'm keenly aware of one person who exemplifies all that I want to be: my dad. In Philippians 3:17 Paul says, “Brothers, join in imitating me, and keep your eyes on those who walk according to the example you have in us.” I want to imitate my dad and walk in his example. He's my friend, my hero, my mentor, and I want to be like him. If I can be one half the husband and father that he is, I'll be in good shape. No single person influenced me to follow Jesus Christ more than my dad. Throughout my life he was a faithful evangelist, counselor, friend, father, and pastor to me.

But this book isn't a tribute to my dad. If it was up to him, this book would never be written. He would acknowledge that any good he has done is solely by the grace of God. Neither is this book a theology of parenting. I'm not qualified to write a book of that sort, and there are many excellent books already written on the topic. And I don't have any experience as a parent yet, so this book isn't written from one parent to another. Rather, this book is written as an encouragement to parents who are working to raise their children in the fear of the Lord. It's written from the perspective of a son who deeply loves and closely watched his dad. I hope the example of my dad stirs fresh faith in your heart for all that God can do through a godly father or mother. I also hope that you're filled with new zeal to raise your children in a manner that pleases and honors Jesus Christ.

I didn't always appreciate my dad. There were many times when I considered him to be an evil dictator intent on stripping all fun from my life. What a fool I was. How grateful I am for the faithfulness of my dad. How grateful I am that he didn't give up on me when I acted like a rebellious idiot. I now see what an extraordinary dad I have. Parents, be encouraged by my dad's example. God honors faithful parenting. He honors those who persist as godly parents through times of joy and times of pain. I pray that God uses this book to encourage those of you who are discouraged by an apparent lack of fruit in the lives of your children. God is faithful. My life proves that to be true.

This book isn't about me and it's not about my dad. This book is really about Jesus Christ and his power working through frail, sinful creatures. By his grace we will raise a generation that fears and loves Jesus Christ. May all we do be for his glory, amen.

Chapter 1

The Converted Sinner

There's an old Yiddish proverb that says, “Catholic priests never make good rock stars.” They certainly got that one right. When was the last time you saw a priest that also was a good rock star? Probably not any time recently. The fact of the matter is, there just aren't many, which is why the rock 'n roll gods breathed a collective sigh of relief when in the eighth grade my dad gave up his intention of becoming a Catholic priest. Rock 'n roll would never be the same, and neither would Catholicism for that matter. But perhaps I should start at the beginning.

The Good Catholic Boy

On January 17th, 1950, Mark Vincent Altrogge enters the world. There's no fanfare or drama surrounding his birth, no doctors shouting that someone is flat-lining, no strangers uttering prophetic words over his bassinet. He's born into a normal, functional, middle-class family that likes eating hamburgers and watching Leave It to Beaver.

His parents are both rosary-praying, Hail Mary-saying Catholics, the kind that go to mass every morning and won't touch meat on Fridays. My dad is a good Catholic boy, attending a Catholic school and serving as an altar boy at the local church. Dad doesn't mess around when it comes to being an altar boy. When he kneels in church, he strains to keep his back ramrod straight. When he prays, he presses his hands together in perfect symmetry, ensuring that each finger is perfectly aligned with the same finger on the opposing hand. Other altar boys slouch when they kneel and pray with their hands completely out of alignment, but not Dad. Dad is trying to be all that he can be...as an altar boy. He collects holy cards, which feature a picture of a saint on one side and a prayer to that saint on the other side. His personal favorite patron saint is the martyred Saint Sebastian, who according to tradition met a grizzly death at the end of approximately 243 arrows. There's something so mystically appealing in the pictures of Saint Sebastian tied to a tree, wrapped in nothing but a loin cloth, his body riddled with arrows, that Dad can't help but admire him.

Dad believes in God as best he knows how. He prays sincerely, carefully thinking about each word that leaves his mouth, and he believes that the Catholic church is the one, true church. But despite all the religious trappings, there isn't anything spiritual happening on the inside. Church is boring. When a young girl named Kathy informs my dad that she likes going to church, he thinks she's a freak, a religious weirdo. He can't understand why someone would like going to church. Church is something you do, not something you like. It's like going to the dentist – just another part of life.

In spite of his boredom with church, Dad is planning on attending a junior seminary after completing the eighth grade. Junior seminary is kind of like the minor leagues of the Catholic church. If a boy thinks he might want to be a priest, he can test the waters by going to a junior seminary first. If all goes well, and he doesn't do anything crazy like set his robes on fire during mass, he can then move on to a regular seminary, and then possibly the priesthood.

But God has better plans than Catholic priesthood for my dad. When Dad is 14 years old, his dad receives a job transfer moving them from Tulsa, Oklahoma, to a sleepy little town called Indiana, Pennsylvania, which essentially ends my dad's junior seminary aspirations. The move to Indiana also coincides with the beginning of my dad's love affair with rock 'n roll music.

Meet The Beatles

On February 9, 1964 my dad has what could truly be called a life-changing experience. This quasi-religious experience comes while sitting in front of a flickering black-and-white television watching The Ed Sullivan Show. That night the show features four pale-faced, shaggy-haired boys from England named John, Paul, George, and Ringo who are taking the world by storm. My dad is captivated by what he sees and hears that night. The Beatles totally redefine the word 'cool'. They play music like no one else, wear their hair in an 'I'm so cool that I don't even need to try' style, and are adored by thousands of hysterical, teary-eyed girls. The Beatles are everything my dad wants to be. The Beatles are rock 'n roll.

And so my dad does what every other man, woman, child, and infant does during the 1960's: he goes out, buys an electric guitar, and forms a band. That first band doesn't last long, playing one or two shows at most, but it's the start of something much bigger. For the next ten years he will be in and out of bands, hoping to find glory and satisfaction on a rock 'n roll stage. My dad's adolescence will be lived out in the rock 'n roll universe.

It's also during his teen years that my dad begins to feel the irresistible squeeze of peer pressure. Under the banner of friendship, Dad starts cursing, smoking, and lying to his parents. He celebrates his high school graduation by downing two cold beers with his buddies. These are the first steps on a path that will lead him into many years of sinful misery.

Peter, the Wolf, and Satan

Following high school, Dad attends the local university with the intent of getting a degree in art education. He also begins plunging himself more and more into the sinful lifestyle that started in high school. In addition to smoking and drinking, he starts experimenting with drugs like marijuana and LSD. Relationships aren't a strong point for him either. He's caught in a cycle of relational misery, desperately longing for a girlfriend and then seriously discontent when he has one. His drinking begins to take on a rhythm and intensity. At first he's only getting drunk on weekends, but by his senior year of college he's getting hammered almost every single night.

In spite of all this, God is at work in my dad. One summer night Dad is laying on his bed listening to the classical piece Peter and the Wolf. He dozes off, drifting into dreamland yet still hearing Peter and the Wolf in the background. Suddenly, without warning, the music changes from happy and cheerful to frightening, discordant, and off-key. The room darkens and it feels as though Satan himself is present in the room. Dad feels as though he's falling into the very depths of hell itself, and he hears himself cry out in a terrified voice, “Jesus help me!” As soon as he cries out to Jesus, everything returns to normal. The horrifying dream is over.

Dad doesn't change as a result of the dream, but it does give him quite a scare. He fears dying, fears going to hell, fears demons and Satan. The hand of God is slowly putting the squeeze on Dad's wicked heart.

Dad has another encounter that's far less frightening, yet equally significant in his spiritual thinking. He's sitting in the university student union building, surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke, and hanging out with fellow art buddies. Their smoky fellowship is interrupted by a young man, decked out in full hippie attire, with a pleasant smile spread across his face. In his hand is a gospel tract, which he hands to Dad. Dad gets rid of the tract, but he can't shake the happy look that he saw on the young man's face. Something was different about the guy. He had something Dad didn't: joy.

The Failing Artist

After college Dad moves to the city of Philadelphia with pie-in-the- sky dreams of making it big as an artist. But before moving he attends several prayer meetings with his parents. At these meetings he sees people genuinely worshiping and praying to God without any of the stilted formality he had witnessed so often in church growing up. During one meeting he hears a man speak intimately to Jesus, as if he knows Jesus personally. The hair on the back of Dad's neck stands up. Something different is going on at these meetings, he knows that much. Before leaving for Philly he buys a Bible.

Dad never makes it as an artist. He simply doesn't have the necessary discipline, and his increasing bondage to alcohol doesn't make things any easier. At one particularly low point, he's both broke and desperate for a drink. And so he goes on a furious hunt throughout his apartment, looking under beds, in closets, in pockets, and in every other nook and cranny, desperately hoping to find the twenty-five cents that can buy him a beer at the local bar. Dad has some serious problems.

Yet God continues his sovereign work in my dad's life. He's dating a girl named Mary, who happens to get on to a plane with a guy named Larry, who happens to be wearing a t-shirt that has a picture of Jesus on the front. Mary goes up to Larry, points at his t-shirt, and says, “Don't you think that's a little disrespectful?” Larry then tells Mary all about Jesus and how he changes lives and forgives sins and saves people. Mary is impressed. Not saved, but impressed nonetheless. She calls my dad and tells him all about this guy named Larry.

Dad moves home, an art failure, flat out broke and feeling pretty sorry for himself. He's living with his parents again, which isn't a real confidence booster for a guy who's trying to make his mark on the art world. Then an odd “coincidence” occurs. Mary is reading the local paper and sees a picture of none other but Larry, the t-shirt wearing Jesus freak that she'd met on the plane. Larry is speaking at a church located about twenty minutes away, and Mary really wants my dad to meet this guy.

Dad goes to the meeting and is met at the door by a guy who looks like he came straight from milking the cows. The guy thrusts out his hand, looks my dad in the eye, and says, “Praise the Lord brother.” Weird, thinks my dad - but not weird enough to drive him out the door. After the meeting Mary drags him to the front of the room to meet Jesus-t-shirt Larry. Larry gives my dad a hard handshake and then asks him, “Mark, have you ever asked Jesus into your heart?”

Dad is flummoxed by this odd terminology. “I think so,” he says. “I'm a Catholic.”

“That's not good enough Mark. You need to ask Jesus into your heart personally. Do you want to do that tonight?”

Dad is bewildered by Larry's quick-strike, up close and personal style and is too embarrassed to say “no”, so he agrees to pray the sinner's prayer. Yet even though he feels pressured into praying, he truly does want to change and makes every effort to pray sincerely. There are no tongues of fire from heaven, no angelic visitations, but it's a start. Although Dad isn't yet truly converted, God is on the move.

True Repentance

Even after praying with Larry, Dad continues to go the bar every night and get blasted out of his mind. But he's not a happy drunk. In fact he's a very guilty drunk. His conscience simply won't let him rest. He starts going to confession every week, telling the priest about his perpetual drunkenness, desperately hoping to ease his smarting conscience. Then Dad starts to get nervous, realizing that he's telling the same priest the same thing every week. What's the priest going to think of him? So he starts going to three different priests, hoping that they won't recognize his voice.

Yet none of Dad's “religious” efforts seem to make any difference. He has no power to change, no self-control, no ability to break the stranglehold of alcohol. He tries setting limits for himself, like one beer per hour or four beers per night, but they never work. He always ends up stone drunk. He's a miserable slave to sin. He needs power to change. He needs a savior.

Then one day a friend invites my dad to a Bible study. At the Bible study a man speaks on what it means to truly repent of your sins and to turn to Jesus for salvation. For his text the speaker uses Hebrews 12:17, which speaks of Esau being unable to repent even though he sought it with tears. This message seriously frightens my dad. He realizes that if he's going to follow God, he needs to turn from his sinful lifestyle and make every effort to obey God.

And so he does. He repents to God of his wickedness, even though he knows that it's going to require some serious changes in his life. He quits drinking and quits going to the bar. He even quits his beloved rock 'n roll band, which has been part of his life for so many years. The band is playing ungodly songs in ungodly places, and Dad knows that this just won't work for him as Christian. So he calls up his friend Dan, who plays bass in the band, and also happens to be a 300 pound giant of a man. Dad informs Dan that he's quitting the band. Dan asks why. Dad informs Dan that Jesus told him to quit the band. Dan is somewhat unhappy with Dad's decision and threatens to “string him up”. Dad still quits the band.

Things progress quickly from this point. Dad destroys a number of his ungodly paintings, moves in with a bunch of Christians, and gets labeled as a “Jesus Freak” by his old friends. It doesn't matter though because Dad knows Jesus now, and that changes everything. He's not the same Mark Altrogge, he's a new creation, with new desires and new passions. The bar-hopping drunk has become a Bible-reading Christian. The man who played rock 'n roll at bars now plays worship songs in Bible studies. Mark Altrogge has met Jesus.

A Debtor To Mercy

A few years later, Dad meets a girl named Kristi who catches his eye. One thing leads to another and on February 16th, 1980, my dad becomes a husband. Two years later a little boy named Stephen makes his debut on planet earth.

Twenty-five years later Dad is still aware of the kindness of God. He knows where he's come from. He knows that apart from the sovereign grace of God, he would still be dead in his sins, and that any success he's experienced as a father is the result of God's unmerited kindness. Dad is a testimony to the mercy of God.

Chapter 2

The Passionate Follower

The comfortable blackness is shattered by what sounds like an air raid siren. It's my alarm clock, and it's screaming at me like a drill sergeant. My hand shoots out from under the covers and silences it with a swat. A groan escapes my lips. With a momentous effort I sit up, wondering if I was in some sort of boxing match the night before that I've forgotten about. I certainly feel like I was.

I stumble out of my bedroom and down the stairs in a semi-conscious stupor, waiting for my brain to realize that I'm awake and moving. A light is on in the family room and I hear the sound of pages rustling. I already know who it is.

“Morning Dad,” I say in a raspy morning voice that makes me sound as though I've spent the night smoking Marlboros. He responds with a cheerful greeting. His Bible is spread across his lap, and he's sipping a cup of oily black coffee that's strong enough to strip paint from a car. It's a scene I've witnessed hundreds of times – Dad beginning each day by feasting on God's word and a strong cup of coffee.

Throughout my childhood one thing was very clear to me: my dad loved Jesus Christ more than anything else. More than music, or friends, or his job, or even his family. In Matthew 22:37 Jesus commands us to, “...love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.” Jesus Christ meant everything to my dad.

Coffee Beans and Bible Study

I saw this in a thousand different ways. First, I saw it in his devotional life. Dad began each day in the same manner: he rose early, made an industrial strength cup of coffee, and read his Bible. He delighted in God's word, rising with the sun to pore over the pages of his well-worn Bible, like a treasure hunter studying a map. He didn't begin his day with exercise, work, or the newspaper. He didn't check his email, get stock quotes, or even eat breakfast. Rather, Dad began each day by communing with and delighting in the Lord. He started each day by drawing strength from God. Devotional times weren't optional, they were essential. Matthew 6:33 says, “But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness...” Dad exemplified this scripture.

Dad's passion for God's word influenced me in a deep and lasting way. I saw the importance of pursuing Jesus Christ over and above everything else, and I came to understand that my relationship with Jesus was priority number one. By the time I was sixteen I had adopted his routine as my own, rising early to enjoy God's word and drink blisteringly hot coffee. (You've probably realized by now that coffee plays a crucial role in my family.) As I grew older, I began to see my desperate need for God's word. I began to see that just as a lonely desert traveler is desperate for water, so I'm desperate for the word of the Lord. My spiritual life hinges on my intake of God's word, and without it, my love for God will shrivel like a dead flower.

Parents, if we want our children to love Jesus, they must first see that we love Jesus. Our passion for God and his word will have a direct influence on our children. They're watching us, and it's obvious to them where our affections lie. They'll pick up on our passions. If we're passionate about watching football, they'll see us spending Saturdays and Sundays on the couch watching football games. If we're passionate about running, they will see us lacing up our shoes before we go for a jog. If we're passionate about the Lord, they'll see us spending time with Him. What sort of example are we setting for our children? Do they observe us spending unhurried time with the Lord? If asked, would they say that Jesus is the number one priority in our life? Do they see us striving to love God with all our heart, mind, and strength? We must not underestimate the influence we have on our children. The example we set will have a deep and lasting impact on them.

Great Books By Dead Guys

I also saw my dad's passion for Jesus in his love of great Christian books. My dad wasn't into bestseller Christian books with titles like Your Driven Best Purpose Now For The Wild At Heart. Not that there's necessarily anything wrong with these types of books. But Dad wanted something more. He read deep, challenging, Christ-centered, God-exalting books written primarily by men who had been dead for hundreds of years. He read books that fired his love for Jesus and compelled him to pursue holiness with all his heart. Dad wanted to see God through the eyes of other men, to stand on the shoulders of theological giants and gaze upon the glory of God from their perspective. So he read books like The Power of the Cross of Christ, Sin and Temptation, and The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment, that were written by spiritual powerhouses such as Charles Spurgeon, John Owen, and Jeremiah Burroughs.

Dad's deep love for God-centered books was passed along to me. The feeling of a book in one hand and a highlighter in the other became a sweet pleasure to me. I loved swimming in the deep pools of theology, exploring doctrines like the atonement, the sovereignty of God, and the unconditional grace of God. Highlighters were my weapon of choice and I marked up books to the point where entire pages blazed with color. My books became my treasure, my priceless collection, and I guarded them like the crown jewels of England.

Parents, what do our children see us reading? Do they see us feeding our souls with the rich food of God-centered books, or do they see us munching on the junk food of novels, newspapers, and email? It's not wrong to enjoy a good mystery novel or peruse the newspaper (I enjoy both myself), but our children will observe how we spend our time and will learn to manage their time in a similar way. My dad's fire for God-centered books sparked a flame in me that continues to burn to this day. He loved books, now I love books. May we spark that same flame in our children.

Holiness and the Remote Control

My dad's zeal for Jesus was also evident in his diligent pursuit of holiness. Hebrews 12:14 calls us to, “Strive for peace with everyone, and for the holiness without which no one will see the Lord.” It's easy to play with sin. We make small compromises, giving in just a little bit. Like an adulterous lover, we flirt with sin, committing spiritual adultery against God. Soon our little compromises turn into big compromises, and we find ourselves enslaved to our sinful desires. Our holiness is breached, and our relationship with the Lord is hindered.

This isn't what I observed in my dad. Instead, I saw a man who took holiness very seriously, a man who didn't play games with sin. He fiercely guarded his heart against temptation. He knew that his heart was deceitful (Jeremiah 17:9), and so he monitored it closely, on guard against any sinful desires that might spring upon him unawares.

Watching television or a movie with Dad was always an adventure. He wasn't the most proficient user of the remote control and had trouble identifying which button performed which function. An inappropriate commercial would flicker onto the screen and Dad would leap into action, saying loudly, “Hey, close your eyes, close your eyes!”, all the while fumbling with the remote in a desperate effort to change the channel. Invariably he would turn up the volume instead of changing the channel.

“Woops, sorry guys,” he would apologize. Then he would study the remote for a moment, point it at the television, and confidently hit the mute button. “What is going on with this thing?” he would say. Finally, after several more seconds of frantic button pushing, he would change the channel just as the commercial was ending.

It was the same story with movies. Inappropriate scene appears on the screen, Dad begins saying in a loud voice, “Don't look, don't look, close your eyes!” and then proceeds to put the movie in slow motion, extending the length of the scene by several minutes.

Despite my dad's clumsy remote handling, I learned a life-changing lesson: holiness matters. I learned what it means to strive for holiness and to “flee youthful passions” (2 Timothy 2:22). It became clear to me that sin was dangerous and not a thing to be trifled with.

While I was growing up my dad sought to impress two truths about sin upon my heart. First, sin is a terrible offense against God. Dad made it clear to me that my sin wasn't primarily against him, but against God. He never said to me, “I'm so disappointed in you,” or, “You really let me down.” Instead, he helped me make the connection between my sin and my relationship with the Lord.

Second, Dad taught me that sin can have terrible consequences. If left unchecked, it can rip families apart, destroy marriages, lead to a life of miserable enslavement, and suck the joy from a person. Sin is like a deadly virus that mercilessly kills a person from the inside out.

Parents, do our children see us pursuing holiness with all our might? Do they see us striving to kill the sin that dwells within our hearts, or do they see us playing with sin? Would our children say that we guard our hearts against temptation? Would they say that we're fighting the good fight and living a life worthy of the gospel? My dad's personal pursuit of holiness inspired me to run hard after God, to pursue the Lord with all my might and strength. Let his example inspire you to pursue righteousness and godliness with every fiber of your being. Be freshly motivated to engage in battle against the fierce sinful desires that wage war within your heart. God is eager to help you. He's eager to pour out grace upon you and to conform you to the image of his son.

In the Shadow of the Cross

At this point we must stop for a moment, take a breath of air, and remember the gospel of Jesus Christ. Observing godliness in other people should motivate us to be like them, but unfortunately it often has the opposite effect. Rather than being encouraged by the example of others, we feel condemned by our own lack of holiness. Instead of fueling our passion for righteousness, seeing the example of others lays a burden of suffocating guilt upon us.

A correct understanding of the gospel changes this. God isn't like a school teacher who gives gold stars for good deeds and cracks you on the wrist with a ruler when you do something wrong. He doesn't operate on the merit system. It was destroyed 2000 years ago when a young Jewish man named Jesus was brutally mauled by Roman soldiers and hung upon a wooden cross to die an agonizing, excruciating, and humiliating death. As Jesus was hanging upon the cross, with blood streaming from every part of his body, divine retribution was taking place. God was punishing Jesus for the sins of everyone who would turn to Him for salvation. God's fierce, terrifying, holy wrath was being poured out on Jesus - a black waterfall of punishment crushing Jesus under its terrible weight.

Now those who turn to Jesus for salvation are completely and totally forgiven. All our guilt is taken away and we are credited with the glorious righteousness of Christ. We're brought into fellowship with God Himself and given power to change. The gospel is our only hope for salvation and our only hope for holiness. As we strive to be like Christ, it's essential that we never forget the gospel. Good parenting begins, continues, and ends with the gospel.

* * *

Dear Dad,

It's amazing the affection that God places in our hearts for our children. Our baby girl, Charis Marie, was born just a few short weeks ago, yet I already love her with an intensity of affection that I've never known before. Everything about her is adorable in my eyes. I love the way she whimpers when we put her to sleep, the way she emits loud, animal-like grunts as she is waking up, and the way that she falls asleep against my chest while I'm watching football. Strange as it may sound, I even love the way she poops. But as I've grown in my love for Charis, I've come to see that if I'm going to truly love my family I must love Jesus above all else. I learned that from you, Dad.

Thank you for loving Jesus more than me. Thanks for making Jesus a bigger priority than Mom, or David, or Beth, or Jonny, or R.J., or me. Seeing you set your priorities has helped me to set mine. I see the importance of delighting in, treasuring, and cherishing Jesus Christ above all else. Seeing you read Scripture every morning had a massive, life-changing impact on me, and the fire that burns in your heart for Christ was passed to me.

I hope to set the same example for my wife and children. I want to rise with the sun to meet with the glorious Son and to soak in God's word before settling down to the newspaper or email. I want my Bible to be worn out and stained from years of faithful reading. I want to have journals filled with years worth of meditations on Scripture. You paved a path of godliness that I want to follow, and you cleared the way with the sword of God's word.

Thank you for pursuing holiness in the little things, like television and music. O how wonderful to grow up with a father that leads the way in holy living. You taught me what it means to put off lustful desires and to put on holiness. You showed me what it's like to make a covenant with my eyes not to lust after someone on the television, or anywhere else for that matter. Dad, we weren't just watching the T.V., we were watching you as well. We took note of how you watched with the remote in hand, ready to flip the channel should the slightest indecency flicker onto the screen. Now I seek to lead my family in the same way. Just the other night Jen and I turned off a particular show due to frequent ungodly content. I learned that from you.

You once wrote a song to the Lord that has the repeated refrain, “To know and follow hard after You.” Dad, you know God, and you follow hard after Him. I want to follow in the path that you've walked for the past twenty-five years, the path of godliness and righteousness. By God's grace I'll do that.

Love,

Stephen

P.S. - I think you'd be better off if you left control of the DVD player up to Mom.

Chapter 3

The Faithful Teacher

Dark, light, more dark. Gravity is exercising its mighty pull upon my weak eyelids. I'm falling, swimming. Now I'm dreaming. Sleep curls its soft fingers around me, warming me, calling me...

“Stephen!” My eyes snap open and struggle to focus on something, anything. What is that blurry thing across from me? Did someone tape my eyelids closed during the night? Why do they feel so heavy? My body and I have a slight disagreement over whether or not I should actually move. My body wins the argument, and I continue to lay motionless.

“Stephen, I want you to sit up when I read the Bible to you. This is really important.” The blurry object takes shape, becoming a familiar figure. I raise my head slightly.

“Dad, I can listen just as well lying down as I can sitting up.”

“No you can't, you're falling asleep.”

“I'm not falling asleep Dad, I'm wide awake. See, look.” I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them as wide as possible, trying to prove that I am indeed awake. With my eyes bulging from my head, I look like some sort of zombie.

“Okay, you can lie down, but I want you to look at me. If I see your eyes closing then I'm going to make you sit up.” I relax again, allowing my body to melt back into the couch. Both of my younger brothers are sprawled out on the floor beneath me, like dead men littering a battlefield, and my sister, who is always semi-comatose in the morning, is draped across a chair.

I'm fully alert for approximately seven seconds before sleep makes another full-scale assault, this time threatening bodily harm if I don't give in to its demands. Dad begins to go out of focus as I lose control of my eyes, and a yawn begins banging around in my mouth in a desperate effort to escape. This is bad. A yawn will attract Dad's attention and he'll see that I'm falling asleep.

For a few moments I'm able to keep my mouth closed and continue my descent into the land of darkness, but soon I can contain myself no longer. The yawn slithers out of my mouth, instantly alerting my dad to the fact that I'm on the verge of falling asleep.

“Stephen, you're falling asleep. I want you to sit up now.”

“Dad, I'm not falling asleep,” I say, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth. “And sitting up is so uncomfortable.”

“Stephen, this is God's word. This is the most important book in the world. It's my job as your dad to teach you about the Lord, and I'm not going to argue about this anymore. Now sit up.”

With considerable effort I manage to raise my body into the upright position. From the look on my face, you would think that I was being forced to walk across hot coals or put venomous snakes down my shirt. Clearly I'm upset at what I perceive to be a great injustice. Nevertheless, I sit up and my dad continues to read Scripture to us as if nothing happened.

Dad is very familiar with these minor disturbances. This scene has been acted out many times before and will happen again many times. But Dad doesn't let our resistance stop him from teaching us God's word. He doesn't let our sinful lack of interest in the Bible discourage him from fulfilling his role as a father. Rather, he faithfully instructs us in the ways of the Lord day after day, teaching us to live in a way that pleases and honors God.

My dad's efforts were not in vain. The Lord used his faithful instruction to stir up godly desires in my heart - desires for salvation, holiness, heavenly rewards, and most importantly, God Himself. Through my dad's faithful proclamation of the gospel, regular family devotions, creative presentation of scripture, diligent discipline, and generosity with books, he led me into a deep and fruitful relationship with the Lord.

The Story That Changed My Life

My dad told wonderful bedtime stories. A large part of my childhood was spent following the exploits of a zany inventor named Ozzie Snozzie and his two young companions, Jack and Jimmy, who oddly enough were very similar to my brother David and me. These stories were fantastic, gripping me from start to finish and filling my head with images of underwater breathing devices, flying machines, super bounce shoes, and turbo charged jet packs. But these stories had no lasting impact on me. I don't look back on them and think, “Wow, my life changed when I heard about Ozzie Snozzie.” It was another story Dad told that truly changed my life. It was the old, old story. The story of a man named Jesus, and his life, and his blood, and his death, and his glorious resurrection. It was the gospel that saved me, changed me, and secured my place in glory. My life did change as a result of hearing that story.

We heard the gospel a lot while growing up. My dad was faithful to teach us about our wicked little hearts and the Savior who was nailed to a cross in our place. He told us about the precious blood of Jesus and how it could wash away our sins. We heard it at home during our family devotions and at church during the sermons. We heard it on our favorite television show, “The Gospel Bill Show”, which chronicled the adventures of a pistol-wielding, gospel-preaching sheriff named “Gospel Bill”, who captured bandits and then converted them to Jesus (Gospel Bill had an amazing capture to conversion rate). I knew that Jesus died for my sins and that I needed to place my trust in Him as my Savior.

But for many years these truths remained locked in my head without ever warming my heart. My head was jam packed with knowledge about God but my heart was devoid of love for God. I knew Bible stories. I could tell you whether Jacob married Rachel or Leah first, how tall Goliath was, and that Hezekiah wasn't a book of the Bible. I was the annoying kid who won all the candy in the Sunday school Bible quizzes. But there wasn't much love in my heart for Jesus. I just wasn't that interested. Like a seed laying dormant in the ground for many years before bearing fruit, the truth of the gospel didn't blossom in my heart until many years after it was planted.

Thankfully, my dad didn't let an apparent lack of fruit discourage him. Knowing that the very souls of his children were at stake, he continued telling us about Jesus even when it appeared that we weren't interested. With great passion and faithfulness, he prayed for us, appealed to us, and reminded us of our great Savior, Jesus Christ. God honored my dad's faithfulness.

I didn't change overnight, nor did I have a single, explosive, life-altering encounter with the Lord. There was no midnight revelation that came to me while doing drugs, no audible voice commanding me to repent. No, the movement of the gospel on my heart was glacier-like: slow, powerful, and unstoppable. There was certainly a glorious, defining moment when I went from death to life, but I don't know when that moment occurred. From my limited perspective, my conversion was a series of defining moments – moments when the truth of Scripture became instantly and powerfully real. There were moments of startling clarity when the Spirit of God opened my eyes to see the glories of truths I had long known. At other times I would feel the great weight of my sin pressing upon me and my desperate need to be rescued. The truths my dad taught me were like arrows which the Holy Spirit used to pierce my heart.

There is one moment that I remember clearly, an event burned into my memory as if with a fire brand. I was only fifteen and am fairly certain that I was born again, yet I felt guilty all the time. The guilt of my sin weighed on me, crushed me, sucked the life out of me. It sat upon me like a great, black specter, stealing what little joy I had. I was miserable, unhappy, and always had the vague feeling that God was slightly ticked-off at me.

But in his sweet mercy, God didn't leave me to wallow in my misery. He lead me to read a book entitled Transforming Grace, written by a man named Jerry Bridges. The words in this book dramatically – and I mean that in every sense of the word – altered my life. God opened my eyes to truly understand the gospel and its many glorious, life-changing ramifications. It was as if a film had been scraped away from my eyes, and I could now see clearly. All the gospel truths I had learned growing up suddenly clicked into place, and I began to understand what it meant to be saved by grace. The fog of guilt that surrounded me evaporated, I could clearly see the cross of Christ, and the word “grace” became sweet to me. My life was changed for the glory of God.

What laid the foundation for this dramatic change? The faithful teaching of my dad. I acknowledge that it was God and God alone who saved me. Dad couldn't put spiritual life into my soul. But the truths Dad taught me were like spiritual ropes which the Holy Spirit used to draw me to God.

And so we must ask ourselves, are we tying spiritual ropes to our children? Do we faithfully, patiently tell them about the gospel? Do they know that Jesus loves them so much that he died for their sins? Do they know what it means to be saved by grace? We must help our children understand these things. We can't change them, nor can we breathe life into their souls. Only God has sufficient power to work such an astonishing change. But God is eager to save our children, and he's eager to use us as key players in that glorious work. By God's power and might, let's take every opportunity to remind our children of their need for a savior and God's wonderful provision of Jesus.

But what if they're not interested? What if they don't care about God? Don't let their lack of interest discourage you. Like a soldier fighting for his precious homeland, fight hard for the souls of your children. Their eternal joy and satisfaction is at stake! Isn't that worth fighting for? God can use the truths you share with your children now to stir their hearts years later. He may use one sentence you say now to draw them to repentance ten years down the road. I'm a testimony to the faithfulness of God - may your children be the same.

I'm Glad My Summer Was Ruined

Not only did my dad faithfully teach us the gospel, he also diligently taught us the Bible. Between the ages of six and eighteen, family devotions were a regular part of my life. I have very distinct memories of sitting around the kitchen table, slurping down cereal, and listening to Dad read from the Family Story Bible. We learned about Joseph and his psychedelic jacket, David the Giant Slayer, Little Man Zacchaeus, and Saul the Christian Killer Turned to Mighty Preacher. In a further effort to teach us the Bible, my dad often recorded these stories onto cassette tape so that we could listen to them as we went to sleep.

There were many days when I didn't want to do devotions. When Dad would wake us up I would beg him to cancel devotions for that morning, pleading with him for just a little more sleep. A typical exchange went something like this:

“Stephen, time to get up for devotions.”

“Can I sleep for just a little longer? Just thirty more minutes, that's all I need.”

“No, I want you to wake up now.”

“Dad, I'm growing! I need extra sleep. Can I have fifteen more minutes of sleep?”

“Now Stephen.”

“I have a Little League game tonight. If I wake up now I'll be really tired for my game.” And on, and on. I always had some reason why I needed extra sleep.

During one summer the battle over sleep became particularly heated. Because I was out of school, I eagerly planned on staying up late every night and sleeping in late every morning. That is, until Dad told the family that he would be waking us up every morning at 8:00 A.M. for family devotions. I was shocked and appalled. Sleeping late is the undeniable privilege of school boys throughout the world, everyone knows that. It's on par with the right to free speech and peaceful assembly. I was angry too. My delightful summer plans were being dramatically altered by this new turn of events. It felt as if my dad had said he would be waking us early so we could go work in the coal mines. He was ruining my summer, and I made that clear to him, actually saying the words, “You're ruining my summer.” But Dad didn't wilt before the heat of my sinful anger, and for the duration of the summer I rose every morning at the dreadfully early hour of 8:00 A.M. to hear my dad read from the Bible.

Deuteronomy 6:7, speaking of God's commands, says, “You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise.” Dad felt the force of these verses, and was committed to diligently teaching me the precious Word of God, even in the face of my resistance.

I love my dad for forcing me out of bed every morning. I'm so grateful that he made me participate in family devotions, and that he faithfully taught me the Word of God day after day. A spiritual foundation, built upon the everlasting rock of the Bible, was laid in my life. My relationship with the Lord was raised upon this foundation, like a house built upon a solid slab of concrete.

Parents, what type of spiritual foundation are we laying for our children? Are we helping them to build their lives upon the unshakable bedrock of Scripture? Do we instruct them from God's word on a regular basis? Proverbs 10:17 says, “Whoever heeds instruction is on the path to life, but he who rejects reproof leads others astray.” By instructing our children in the Word of God, we are leading them to the path of life.

Don't be surprised or intimidated by your children's opposition to spiritual activities. Scripture tells us that our hearts are thoroughly sinful and deceitful beyond cure. In Jeremiah 17:9 we read, “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?” Ponder those words for a moment. Deceitful above all things. Desperately sick. Like a deadly cancer that infects every part of the body, sin affects every part of us. Even after conversion the battle against sin continues to rage within our hearts. Thus, we shouldn't be shocked if our children aren't interested in family devotions, acting as if we just caught them selling national security secrets to the Russians. Rather, we should respond in two ways. First, by appealing to God to move upon the hearts of our children. We can't cause our children to become interested in spiritual things. We can't cause their cold, dead hearts to beat with spiritual life. Only the Holy Spirit can accomplish such a sacred work. When it seems that our children are apathetic toward holy things, let us cry out to God in desperation to move upon their hearts.

Second, we should respond by gently, yet firmly, insisting that our children listen to the Word of God. We can't make them come alive spiritually, but we can point them to the One who brings the dead to life. Just as a farmer must sow seeds and then rely upon the sun and the rain, so we must sow seeds of biblical truth and then rely upon the Spirit of God to cause growth.

Bible Rap

Dad regularly read the Bible to us, but he also did more than just read the Bible to us. He attempted to creatively present Scripture in ways that we could relate to and remember. Dad knew that kids have an attention span of approximately six seconds, and that simply reading the Bible to us might not be the most effective way to help us remember and apply its truths. Thus, Scripture songs were born.

Music has a unique ability to lodge itself in our brains. I struggle to remember the birthdays of all my siblings, yet within seconds I can recall the theme song from the television show “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles”. Music helps us remember things. We associate certain songs with specific people, places, and events – a close friend, a trip across the country, a difficult time of life, etc.

Dad realized that the magical power of music could be fused with the supernatural power of Scripture, and so he began putting scripture verses to music and then recording them for us to listen to. It wasn't anything fancy at first. Just Dad beating out chords on his acoustic guitar and singing along with the music. It was sort of like Bob Dylan meets John the Baptist. As time went on and Dad acquired better recording equipment, the musical side of things improved. But his passion remained the same: to teach his children the Word of God in both a practical and creative manner. He wanted us to love Scripture and to have it stored within our hearts. Dad wanted us to see that Scripture was relevant to every part of our lives. 2 Timothy 3:16-17 says, “All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the man of God may be competent, equipped for every good work.” Dad lived this scripture, and he wanted us to live it as well.

At times however, Dad tried to get a little too relevant. In the early 1990's my brother and I were crazy about a Christian rap band called “dcTalk”. In my eyes they defined the word “cool”. They wore funky clothes festooned with bright, geometric patterns, sang rockin' songs about God, and had great dance moves. Dad sought to capitalize on our infatuation by putting a scripture to rap music, with all the beats and rapping done by my dad of course.

The result was astonishingly bad. To the untrained ear it probably sounded like a white, middle-aged, middle-class man singing a rap song. In reality it was a white, middle-aged, middle-class man trying to sing a rap song, and failing miserably. If you were to combine M.C. Hammer and James Taylor you might get a similar result.

And yet the awful music had the intended effect. To this day I still remember every word of the hip-hop scripture verse. God's word was hidden in my heart thanks to Dad's creative efforts.

Dad's efforts to help us memorize Scripture didn't stop with scripture songs. At one point he offered to pay us for every scripture we memorized – sort of a Bible for bucks program. His passion for our spiritual well being ran so deep that he was willing to pay us cash for every verse we memorized. Psalm 119:72 says, “The law of your mouth is better to me than thousands of gold and silver pieces.” Dad took this verse to heart.

Being a young boy with little income, this proposal appealed to me. I began zealously memorizing Scripture, starting with the verse, “Jesus wept.” (John 11:35) Like the scripture songs, this program helped me to hide God's word in my heart.

Books For His Boys

But Dad wasn't my only teacher during my youth. On a regular basis Dad gave me outstanding spiritual books. I asked for many things growing up, most of which I rightly never received. But if I asked for a spiritual book, I got it. Dad was eager give me the expensive book Systematic Theology. He was excited when I asked for the book Transforming Grace. When it came to books, Dad operated on an open wallet policy.

Dad also gave me books when I didn't want them. The book Thoughts For Young Men by J.C. Ryle didn't appeal to me. The cover was awful, featuring the silhouettes of several young men who were supposedly sitting or standing in cool, refreshingly hip poses, but who looked distinctly not cool. It was written in an intense, Puritan-like style, and passionately extolled the need for holiness, which at the time wasn't something I was real excited about. I certainly wouldn't have asked for the book.

None of this mattered to Dad. He knew that the book was a spiritual gem and that I needed to be taught by J.C. Ryle. So he purchased a copy of the book for each of his boys, and we went through it together. I wasn't given the option of whether or not I wanted to read the book. Dad decided that we were going to read it and that was that. To this day I'm grateful for the time we spent together under the teaching of J.C. Ryle.

Parents, let's be unusually generous with our children when it comes to spiritual things. There's no better investment than a book that will set our children's hearts aflame with love for God. We invest in our retirement accounts very carefully, do we invest in our children with the same diligence?

Maybe your children aren't interested in spiritual books. Get one for them anyway and read through it with them. Don't let their lack of interest prevent you from spiritually investing in them. God-centered books are another way of sowing seeds of biblical truth into the soil of your children's hearts, and God can cause these seeds to blossom into the sweet fruits of grace.

The Rod of Discipline

My dad also acted as a diligent teacher by faithfully disciplining me. Proverbs 22:15 says, “Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him.” As a child I had much folly bound up within my heart. Fortunately, I had a dad who was willing to do the dirty work of driving it out.

In most children, and some adults, there is a unique combination of utter sinfulness and sheer stupidity. As a child I perfectly exemplified these two qualities, doing things that were not only terribly sinful, but also astonishingly stupid. Take the 'Armchair Incident' for example.

I was ten years old, and my family was on vacation in Westmoreland State Park. It had rained all week, and we were staying in concrete block cabins that would have fit very nicely in a Nazi concentration camp. We were stuck playing card games all day every day, and everyone was getting a bit stir crazy.

On one such rainy day, my younger brother David, who had an unfortunate amount of energy given the circumstances, began doing gymnastics between two chairs, suspending his body between the chairs by bracing with his arms. Both chairs had solid wooden arms with semi-sharp corners, and David was using them like a gymnast on the parallel bars.

At that moment, my sinful nature collided with my utter stupidity in astonishing fashion. I walked over to David, drew my arm back, and swung it at one of his arms, like a tennis player swatting at a ball. David was knocked from his perch and fell backwards, slamming his head off the corner of the chair and crumpling to the ground. It was a crime that was both cruel and unusual on my part. Needless to say, I was firmly disciplined for my heinous act.

I committed many such crimes as a youth and was punished for them without fail. When I was younger I was spanked for my disobedience, a literal application of Proverbs 22:15. As I grew older the spankings turned to groundings or the removal of privileges.

I love my dad for disciplining me. I love him for spanking and grounding me. Why? Because I learned that sin has consequences, that there's a connection between the crime and the punishment. The consequences of disobeying Mom and Dad were small – a spanking or grounding. But a deeper connection was also made. Over time I began to understand that sin can have serious, terrible, life-altering consequences, much more than just a spanking. Sin strains our relationship with the Lord, hurts our fellowship with others, and defiles our consciences. Sin is not to be trifled with. I thank God for teaching me this through the diligent discipline of my dad.

Why was my dad's discipline so effective? Several reasons. First and foremost, it was empowered by the Holy Spirit. My dad prayed for us regularly. He sought God on our behalf, asking Him to do a mighty transforming work in our hearts. He prayed for divine wisdom to be a father. The Spirit of God empowered Dad to discipline us effectively.

Parents, if we are to discipline our children effectively we must pray. We must get down on our faces and plead with the Almighty God for supernatural power. Who among us has sufficient wisdom to raise our children in a manner that glorifies God? We are in desperate need of grace. Let us ask our lavish and generous God for otherworldly wisdom and power.

Second, I never sensed that Dad was angry when he disciplined me. There was no yelling or screaming, no belittling. He never said, “I can't believe you did such a thing!” I never heard the words, “I'm so disappointed in you.” Dad never grabbed me or touched me in an angry manner. My experience was one of firm, yet loving discipline.

Do our children feel the same way? Is our discipline characterized by love or by blistering anger? In James 1:20 we read, “...for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness that God requires.” Anger will not produce godliness in our children, nor will it lead them on the path of righteousness. A potter must be gentle yet firm when shaping clay into a jar, otherwise the jar will become misshapen and break. Likewise, we must be gentle yet firm with our children when disciplining them.

Third, Dad's discipline was often tempered with mercy. There were many times when I fully deserved to be punished but instead received mercy. There were times when I said disrespectful, dishonoring, angry words to my dad, words that would lead many people to react in anger. But Dad fought the temptation to punish me simply as an angry reaction. Instead, he often gave me mercy, which reinforced the fact that Dad disciplined me out of love rather than anger.

Parents, we can honor the Lord by consistently and lovingly disciplining our children when they sin. We can help our children grasp the severity of sin and help them make the connection between sin and its consequences. By the power and grace of God, we can drive the folly from our children's hearts and point them to the Savior.

Discipline is also a wonderful opportunity to remind our children of the gospel. We can help them understand that their sin isn't primarily against us, but against the Lord. Through discipline, we can introduce our children to the holiness of God, the vileness of sin, and we can point them to the glorious cross of Christ.

Desperate For the Spirit

My dad was a diligent teacher, but all his efforts would have been wasted apart from the supernatural work of the Holy Spirit. This is our only hope as parents. We can't cause our children to follow the Lord, grow in holiness, or hate their sin. Only God can perform such a monumental task. Therefore, let us look to God for all the power, wisdom, and grace necessary to parent effectively.

* * *

Dear Dad,

Do you remember the time I told you that you were ruining my summer by waking me up early for devotions? I pouted and whined, but you refused to give in and proceeded to “ruin” my summer.

It turns out that I'm ruining my own summer now. By God's grace, I plan on rising early in the morning throughout the year, for the purpose of studying and meditating on God's word. It seems that God used your “devotions boot camp” to create deep spiritual desires within me.

Dad, I can't tell you how grateful I am for the way you diligently taught us the Word of God. We certainly didn't make it easy for you. We complained, cried, and pleaded for a few more minutes of sleep, and on many occasions we actually fell asleep while you were reading the Bible to us. But in spite of all this you never threw in the towel. You were like a farmer, faithfully planting the seeds of God's word in every season.

Today my life bears the fruit of your steadfast teaching. God has caused the spiritual seeds you planted in my heart to flower and bloom. You laid a spiritual foundation in my life that, Lord willing, will last until the day I draw my final breath. Thank you for your faithfulness to teach us the precious Word of God. To say that I'm grateful would be a colossal understatement. I'm deeply indebted to you.

I have to chuckle when I think about your attempts at rap music. It was so bad, and yet it was so good. The music was awful and I cringe at just the thought of it, but the heart motivation behind it was deeply pleasing to the Lord. You wanted us to know God's word, and you were willing to do whatever it took to impart that knowledge.

I know that you and Mom regret some of the ways that you disciplined me, feeling that they lacked grace at times. Yet God used your rod of discipline to drive folly from my heart. I shudder to think what I would be like apart from the loving discipline you so faithfully administered.

Dad, I want to be like you in so many ways. By God's grace, I will teach my children God's word in the same way you taught me. I want them to love God's word, just like Grandpa.

Love,

Stephen

P.S. - Don't ever try to rap again!

Chapter 4

The Gentle Interrogator

The 200 watt bulb is heating up, drawing sweat from my face like water from a rock. I'm sitting in a hardback chair in an isolated room, surrounded by cheerless concrete walls. They're trying to break me, to make me crack. But I'm not talking. They can't make me.

A door opens and a middle-aged man with wispy dark hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee saunters in. He looks at me, shakes his head, and then moves to stand behind me. His breath is hot and smells like day-old coffee. Leaning over, he says in my ear, “Hello Stephen, I'm detective Dad. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

My heart rate picks up and a single droplet of sweat begins to trickle down my face. I brace myself.

In one swift motion detective Dad grabs the 200 watt lamp, shoves it into my face, and asks, “Where were you on the afternoon of June 3rd?” I screw my eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the white-hot light.

June 3rd, yesterday. “I don't remember where I was,” I respond.

The detective stares at me for several seconds before saying, “I see. Going to play the memory game are we? Maybe I can help you remember.”

“Were you in the living room playing with your G.I. Joe figures?”

“I...I think I was. I don't quite remember.”

Detective Dad thrusts his face close to mine, and I catch a whiff of freshly ground Kenyan AA coffee. “Don't play games with me son,” he says through clenched teeth. “We have ways of making canaries like you sing. Now I'm going to ask you one more time, where were you yesterday afternoon?”

“I want to talk to my lawyer!”

“You're only eleven years old, you don't have a lawyer. Now, were you or were you not in the living room?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Good, now we're getting somewhere. Did you hear your mom ask you to clean your room?” The detective is pacing back and forth, like a lion circling a wounded animal.

“It's not just my room, it's...”

“Just answer the question!”

“Yes, I heard her.”

“Did you or did you not continue to play with your G.I. Joe's after hearing your mother's request?” I squirm in my seat and look around for help.

“I think I might have,” I answer vaguely.

“Yes or no?” demands detective Dad, showering me with a fine mist of spittle.

“Yes, I did continue to play.”

“So you disobeyed your mom?”

“Yes, I disobeyed,” I say, a tone of resignation in my voice. Detective Dad stands up and walks toward the door. He pauses and turns, a grim smile on his face.

“We're going to put you away where the sun don't shine until you learn to obey your mom.” I bury my face in my hands as detective Dad leaves the room.

The Gentle Interrogator

The previous scene is a complete and total fiction, a fabrication of my mind spawned by watching too many episodes of Law and Order. Unfortunately, for many people my fiction is very close to their reality. They grow up in homes where the father and mother act as fearsome interrogators, questioning their children in a brutal manner. But this wasn't my experience. My dad was what I call a 'gentle interrogator', who asked insightful and probing questions in a gentle manner. This gentle questioning was instrumental in leading me to follow the Lord.

As parents, we're responsible for our children's spiritual well being. At any given time we should know what's going on in their lives and the strength of their relationship with the Lord. And it's impossible to know the spiritual state of our children without first asking them questions - sometimes extraordinarily difficult questions. We must be spiritual physicians to our children.

Dad often played the role of spiritual doctor, seeking to determine the health of my soul through tactful and insightful questions. These questions came in three forms. First, Dad probed my pursuit of the Lord. He wanted to know what I was reading in my Bible, down to the passage and verse. Dad knew that reading Scripture was critical to spiritual growth and so made every effort to ensure that I was spending adequate time in the Scriptures. When I was younger, Dad would assign me a specific passage of Scripture to read each day, and at the end of the day he would ask me if I had done the assigned reading. Dad was my spiritual nutritionist, assigning me a specific “diet” of God's word every day, ensuring that I was getting the right amount of spiritual calories.

Parents, we too must ensure that our children are receiving consistent doses of God's word. If we desire to see them grow in passion for God, it's crucial that they be receiving God's word on a regular basis. God's word acts as the spark that lights the kindling of our children's hearts.

Dad also asked me very specific questions about my struggles with sin. How awkward those questions were then and how grateful I am for them now. He asked questions like: Are you struggling with lust? Are you ever tempted to look at pornography? Is it hard for you to be respectful to your mom? Do you struggle to love your brothers and sisters?

These questions were painful and awkward for both of us. After all, what young boy likes to be quizzed on his current sexual struggles? There were long moments of silence, vague answers, and even times of outright deceit. But I love my dad for those painful conversations. The Lord used my dad's questions to convict me of my sin and bring me to repentance. The questions also served as a deterrent to sin, a spiritual roadblock on the path of iniquity. In God's mercy, my conscience wouldn't let me hide sin from my dad for an extended period of time. I knew that before long, he would ask.

Parents, we too must have the courage to ask our children tough questions. I guarantee that it will feel awkward, and our children may not respond well. Yet we must continue to ask the hard questions, trusting God to infuse our words with divine, heart-convicting power. Galatians 6:1 says, “Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness.” By asking our children about their struggles, we can help them overcome their sin and grow in godly character.

Finally, Dad asked me about my friends. In 1 Corinthians 15:33 we read, “Do not be deceived: 'Bad company ruins good morals.'” Bad company has a corrupting influence on good character, causing it to rot and decay. Our character is shaped by those around us. Godly friends lead us into fellowship with Christ and holiness of life, while evil friends lead us on a warpath of sin and destruction.

Thus, my dad regularly questioned me about the conduct of my friends. He asked questions like:

“What are the guys on the baseball team saying in the dugout? Are they making any dirty jokes?”

or,

“What sort of music are your friends listening to? What are the lyrics like?”

and,

“Are your friends talking about girls? What kinds of things are they saying?”

Dad was keenly aware that friends could exert a powerful influence over me, either for good or evil, and so he sought to protect my heart. By asking these questions he was able to keep his finger on the pulse of my friendships and monitor them for any signs of danger.

At the time, I didn't enjoy having my friendships scrutinized, but now I'm profoundly grateful for my dad's gentle interrogation. God used his efforts to protect my young, impressionable heart from being swayed by the winds of ungodly influences.

What was it that made my dad's questions so effective? What was it about them that brought down my defenses and melted my conscience? It was his gentle, humble spirit. I knew that no matter what sin I confessed, he wouldn't become angry with me. I wasn't afraid that he was going to fly into a fit of screaming, vessel-popping rage, or that he would verbally shred me to pieces. Dad never said, “I'm so disappointed in you,” or, “You really let me down.” Instead, he would humbly identify with me by saying, “Stephen, I've done things much worse than you'll ever do.”

This gentleness made it easier for me to come to my dad when I was struggling with sin. I knew that he wanted to help me overcome my sin, and that he wouldn't harshly rebuke or belittle me.

Would our children say that we're gentle, or would they characterize us as harsh and angry? Is our rod of discipline wrapped in gentleness? Do we make it easy for our children to confess their sin to us? In Galatians 5:22-23 we are told that, “...the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control...” Gentleness is the fruit of the Holy Spirit at work within us. Let us appeal to God for the power to raise our children with gentleness.

Fighting the Self-Talker

There are several types of people who are difficult to converse with. First, there are the “close-talkers” – those individuals who feel that they can't have a real conversation unless their face is six inches away from yours. These people have no conception of personal space and usually end up spitting on you several times during the conversation. There are also the “fire-breathers”, otherwise known as the kings of halitosis. You know the type. They drink large volumes of coffee, only brush their teeth on special occasions, and smell as though they've been chewing on a piece of decaying meat. Conversations with these types don't last very long. Finally, there are the “self-talkers”. These may be the worst of the bunch. All conversations revolve around them. They never ask questions and are only comfortable discussing their interests, desires, and experiences. All discussions with them are one-sided.

Dad didn't want me to be a close-talker, and he certainly didn't want me to be a halitosis king, but above all, he didn't want me to be a self-talker. Our natural tendency is to be self-absorbed and this often manifests itself in our speech. Our conversations often orbit around one thing and one thing only: us. Philippians 2:3 commands us to, “Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves.” Dad sought to help me apply this scripture by teaching me the art of question asking.

From my early teen years, Dad emphasized the importance of drawing others out in conversation. Before company arrived for dinner he would tell us, “Guys, I want you to ask questions tonight. Find out something about our guests.” He would then lead by example, asking our company one question after another. By the end of the night, we would know our guest's hobbies, desires, family background, favorite movie, pet peeve, and credit card number. Just kidding about the last one, but you get the point.

It was by observing Dad that I learned to ask insightful, thought-provoking questions. Effective questions are like a piece of fine art, carefully crafted with much precision. But like any art, the craft of question asking must be learned. Dad was the master artist, and I was the apprentice.

How grateful I am to have learned the godly art of question asking, for it has served me well throughout my life. The ability to draw others out has helped me to develop deep, God-honoring friendships with Christians, and to develop relationships with unbelievers for the purpose of evangelism. An inability to draw others out would seriously limit my effectiveness for the Lord.

Parents, what are we modeling for our children? Do we take an active interest in others or do our conversations center squarely on us? Would our children characterize us as question-askers or self-talkers? When sitting at the dinner table with guests, are we leading the way in taking an interest in others? By God's grace, let us consider the interests of others as more significant than our own. Let us set an example for our children in drawing others out.

Also, let us diligently instruct our children in the art of question asking. Asking questions doesn't come naturally. By nature we're self-centered and self-absorbed. Our children must be taught to take an interest in others.

I owe my dad a debt of gratitude for the example he set. He taught me what it means to count the interests of others as more significant than my own, and then he provided me with a stirring example to follow. Lord willing, I'll do the same for my children.

* * *

Dear Dad,

You're an artist in many ways. You slap paint onto a canvas and, “POOF”, out comes a beautiful painting. You sit down with your guitar, fiddle around with a few chords, and like magic, a new song is born. You're also gifted in the art of question asking, an art form that few people have truly mastered.

You always had (and still have) this way of asking tremendously awkward questions in a gentle, disarming manner. You would gently ask me how I was doing in the battle against lust. Not a fun question at all, both for you and me. Yet you always had a gentle, patient tone, and you never got angry, regardless of my response.

Your gentleness meant everything to me. I wouldn't have responded to your questions if they had been loaded with sarcasm or anger. I would've shut down the moment the words left your lips. God used your gentle, humble spirit to melt my stony heart. He used your questions like a spiritual can-opener to pry open my heart. Thank you for slogging through the awkward moments and painful silences. Thank you for not letting my clipped, one-word responses turn you away. I hope to ask my children the same questions you asked me.

I also hope to instruct them in the art of question-asking, just as you instructed me. Dad, I can't express how grateful I am that you taught me to take an interest in others. The skill of drawing others out has served me dramatically, leading me into deeper friendships, more effective evangelism, and closer fellowship with those around me. And you always led the way in this area. When we had company at the house, you bombarded them with one excellent question after another. When we were with relatives, you made it your goal to take a deep interest in them. We just followed your lead. You were the general and we were the troops.

Now I'm supposed to be the general who leads my family, and frankly, it's a bit overwhelming. But God will help me, just as he helped you. That's my only hope. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I want to be like you, Dad. I'm 25 years old and I still want to be like my dad!

Love,

Stephen

P.S. - I may not be artsy but you never could beat me in hoops.

Chapter 5

The Servant Leader

A working man's day runs from approximately 8 A.M. to 5 P.M., give or take a few hours on either side. Between these hours the working man toils for someone else, breaking his back to appease “The Man” and put a few slices of bread on the table. But when the clock strikes five, a transformation takes place. His furrowed brow becomes smooth, his breath comes easier, and a dreamy smile spreads across his face. He goes homes, kicks off his shoes, and collapses into his recliner to read the paper. A hard earned break after a grueling day of work. Working Man becomes Relaxing Man.

But then the unexpected happens. Relaxing Man's wife enters the scene, physically exhausted after a full day of caring for three young children, and asks him to help clean up a mess made by the kids. Relaxing Man bristles with anger. His precious rest time is being cruelly invaded by barbarians. The audacity of such a request! He shouldn't have to serve, he just put in a hard day's work. His wife should be serving him, perhaps offering him a foot massage or a cool beverage in a frosted mug. Last time he checked, serving wasn't exactly part of his job description. But a man's work is never done, and Relaxing Man grudgingly agrees to help. He'll serve, but he won't like it.

Unfortunately, the above scene is all too common. I've seen it in my own life, and I've seen it in the lives of others. But I observed a different example while growing up. My dad didn't demand to be served. Rather, he was the greatest servant in the house, and he showed us what it meant to lay down your life for others.

Frozen Pizza and Dirty Dishes

Due to a variety of health problems, there were numerous days when my mom was sick to the point of being bedridden. On these dark days my dad served heroically, demonstrating true greatness.

In the mid to late 1980's there was a television showed called MacGyver, featuring an action hero named, cleverly enough, “MacGyver”. In every episode there would come a moment when MacGyver found himself caught in a life-or-death situation with no apparent way of escape. But MacGyver was a genius, able to create an escape route from almost nothing. For example, MacGyver is locked in a burning room with no way of escape. That is until he picks the lock with a credit card and two rubber bands. Or MacGyver finds himself trapped in a locked bank vault with the oxygen quickly running out. But with three paper clips, a piece of duct tape, a swiss army knife, and a large wad of bubble gum, he manages to create an acetylene torch and cut his way out of the vault. Or MacGyver is thrown off a tall building and is plunging toward a certain and gruesome death. Good thing MacGyver is able to fashion a small Cessna airplane from a yo-yo, a cassette tape, and a signed glossy of Ronald Reagan. You get the picture.

Dad became the MacGyver of Altrogge household dinners. He learned to create fantastic meals using only a crockpot, some chicken, and a few vegetables. He took grilling to an almost spirit-tual level, and with nothing but a few pieces of chicken and a bit of barbecue sauce he could create a meal worthy of a king. Even now I can picture him hunched over the grill, like a sweaty composer over a piano. Dad couldn't create something out of nothing, but he came pretty close.

Of course there were some terrible meals as well. Never one to fork out more cash than necessary, Dad attempted to save both time and money by making pizzas in bulk. To accomplish this noble task he purchased approximately twenty pizza crusts, an industrial sized tub of tomato sauce, and an enormous bag of shredded cheese. Then he began creating the pizzas in assembly line fashion, spreading out the crusts, dumping on the sauce, and topping them all off with a healthy layer of cheese.

There was a slight problem however. The crusts Dad had purchased were of a particularly low quality, which is what happens when you buy twenty pizza crusts at twenty-five cents apiece. They didn't cook well, and by the time they came out of the oven they tasted like a hot piece of cardboard or like something that would be served in a 19th century orphanage. As a result we ate startlingly bad pizza for the next two months. But Dad's heart was in the right place.

Not only did Dad cook, but he also cleaned, and there was no task too small or undignified for him. Many nights after dinner, Dad would be the first one to volunteer for dish duty. Rather than leave the cleaning to his wife and kids, which is what many men would do, Dad would cheerfully throw himself into the sloppy job of scraping dirty plates.

Dish duty was a loud affair when Dad was on the job. He began by putting on loud, cheerful music – the kind that makes you want to move. Then he would begin shoveling all, and I mean all, the uneaten scraps of food into our garbage disposal. There wasn't much that couldn't be put down the disposal. Hunks of gristly meat, half-eaten pieces of bread, bones of various shapes and sizes, car tires, bowling balls, and just about anything else. This disposal process was tremendously loud and often drowned out the music, which would then be turned up louder. By the time the kitchen was finally clean, the music would be playing at U2 concert levels, causing neighboring dogs to bleed at the ears.

Dad also served my mom by doing numerous house projects at her request. At any given point you could be certain that there would be at least three unfinished projects taking place in the house. A quick glance into the kitchen would reveal two yellow walls and two green walls, the result of Dad repainting the kitchen. And the truth is, Dad didn't particularly care about the color of the kitchen. If it was up to him, it would probably still be the exciting egg-shell white it was when we moved into the house. But Mom liked color, and Dad saw painting the kitchen as an opportunity to serve and care for his wife. A look into the bathroom would show a new mirror on the floor and a blank spot on the wall where the old one had been ripped off. Of course Dad didn't really care about mirrors – there wasn't much to look at. But Mom cared, and thus a new mirror was being put up in the bathroom.

The house will probably always be in a semi-finished state, but that's okay. These acts of service left a deep impression on my heart. I came to see that a husband is responsible for more than just putting food on the table. A husband is called to be a servant and to cheerfully lay down his life for his wife and children. I also came to understand the true meaning of great- ness. It's not the Fortune 500 CEO or the professional athlete that's great in God's eyes. Truly great men are servants. God is impressed by the man who sacrificially serves his wife, family, and friends. I want to be like my dad. I want to demonstrate my love for the Lord, my wife, and my children by being a cheerful, passionate servant.

The Root of the Matter

What was it that made my dad's servant heart tick? What inner fire drove him to serve our family so faithfully?

First, Dad fought against the temptation to think in terms of rights. Selfishness is born out of a rights-based mindset. The 'rights man' thinks that he has a right to relax and peruse the paper after a hard day at the office. After coming home from work he's usually concerned with two things: food and rest (although not necessarily in that order). When his rest is stolen away by crying children or a chaotic house, he feels that his God-given, constitutional rights have been violated, and he becomes angry.

Such thinking is clearly not biblical. In Scripture we're told that the only thing we deserve is the furious, torturous wrath of God. We forfeited all rights the moment we experienced our first taste of sin. Romans 6:23 makes this very clear when it says, “For the wages of sin is death...” Each one of us is worthy of spiritual execution.

But in his kindness, God didn't crush us beneath his terrible wrath. Instead, he crushed the person he loved most, his precious Son Jesus. As Jesus hung upon the cross, he took the great weight of our sins upon Himself and endured the wrath of God for those sins. Now instead of getting what we deserve, we get mercy. 2 Corinthians 5:21 puts it this way: “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” We would do well to meditate upon this truth when we feel that our rights have been violated.

In Scripture we also see that Jesus didn't cling to his rights. If anyone had the right to demand worship, honor, and praise, it was Jesus, the mighty world maker. If anyone had the right to be served it was Jesus. Yet he cast those rights aside and chose to take the form of lowly man. In Mark 10:45 we read, “For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” This truth should radically affect the way we live each day. Jesus Christ, the One worshiped by the angels, didn't come to be served, but to serve. The high and exalted One became lowly and humble. The creator of galaxies became a baby. This is a glorious, mind-boggling truth. A true understanding of the gospel strips us of any notion of rights.

Parents, if we're to serve our families effectively we must avoid 'rights' thinking. Nothing breeds selfishness like clinging to perceived rights. By God's grace, let us strive to sacrifice our own desires and serve our families. Let us fling aside our 'rights' and serve with cheerful zeal.

Dads, as you return home from work, prepare your heart to serve your family. Seize your commute home as an opportunity to meditate on passages such as Ephesians 5:25, which says, “Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her...” Without this preparation it's likely that you'll come home from work eager to be served rather than to serve.

My dad was also driven by a desire to be great in God's eyes. The Bible redefines greatness for us, taking the world's definition and flipping it upside down. In Matthew 20:26-27 Jesus said, “It shall not be so among you. But whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be your slave.” God defines greatness not in terms of popularity or political power, but in terms of being a servant. Those who serve are great in God's eyes, those who don't aren't. God isn't impressed by the man with the biggest ministry, the finest looking suits, or the fattest bank account. He's impressed by the man with the servant's heart. Most of us won't preach to thousands, or become foreign missionaries, or be martyred for Christ. Yet we can still be great in God's eyes by becoming servants.

In my dad I saw true greatness displayed. He wasn't at his greatest when he was leading worship or standing behind the pulpit. He was truly great when he stood in front of the kitchen sink scraping grease from a pan with dry, cracked hands.

Parents, are we showing our children what it means to be truly great? Are we providing them with an example to follow? When our children are grown, how will they remember us? Will it be as humble servants? By God's grace, let us strive to be great in God's eyes. Let us put to death our selfishness and seek to serve our families. In doing so we will honor God and leave a lasting impression on our children.

* * *

Dear Dad,

It's clear to me now that pizza isn't your calling. In fact, if there's such a thing as an anti-calling, yours is pizza. I've never seen someone make so many bad pizzas at one time. And it's the kindness of God that I'm not permanently scarred by your experiment with bulk manufacturing. Dad, leave pizza to the Italians. You're German - make sausage or something, because pizza is definitely not your calling.

But in making those pizzas, you were fulfilling a deeper calling: the divine call to serve your family. The pizzas may have left a bad taste in my mouth, but your servant leadership left a deep impression on my heart.

Dad, thank you for investing your time and energy into serving your family. I can recall many days when Mom felt terribly sick and was forced to spend most of the day sleeping. Not once did I hear a bitter complaint slip from your lips, or hear you speak a grumbling word toward Mom. I know that you struggled with these temptations, yet I never heard you voice the sinful desires of your heart.

Instead, I saw a man cheerfully serving his family. You did whatever was necessary to keep the house running – washing clothes, cooking dinner - and on top of all this you continued to carry out your rigorous responsibilities as a pastor.

Thank you for not clinging to your 'rights' as man of the house. After putting in a hard day at the office, many would feel that they deserved a relaxing, stress-free evening. Although I'm sure you felt these sinful cravings as well, you didn't let them rule you. You gave up your so-called rights and sought to serve the family when you arrived home from work.

Recently I've found myself seeking to imitate you within the context of my own family. When Jen was suffering the ill-effects of pregnancy sickness, I tried to serve her and care for her just like you cared for Mom. Remembering you standing by the kitchen sink, scraping grease from dishes, spurred me to do the same. There was no job too small or too mundane for you, and I want to have that same attitude.

Dad, it says in Scripture that true greatness is defined by serving. You are truly great in God's eyes. Not because you've got a successful church or are a world-class songwriter, but because you're a servant. You're great in my eyes as well, and I want to be like you.

Love,

Stephen

P.S. - Next time let's just order pizza.

Chapter 6

The Humble Father

Some people say that things slow down in the moment before impact. They see everything with perfect clarity and have time to reflect on the meaning of life. Some manage to utter a quick prayer, appealing to the heavens for divine protection. Not me though, I never had a chance. One moment I was fiddling with the radio, the next I was hearing the sickening sound of metal being pulverized. My head snapped forward and then jerked back as the seat belt caught. Then stillness.

I felt sick. A moment of inattentiveness had caused me to slam into a stopped car. The hood was mashed into a small mountain range of metal and a pool of green coolant was collecting beneath the car. The innards of the car lay exposed through the ruined hood. This wasn't a minor fender-bender resulting in a few small scratches. This was a NASCAR-like smash up. To top it all off, it wasn't my car.

It's a bit awkward to tell your dad that you completely destroyed his car. I wasn't sure how he would react when I broke the news. Would he be angry? Would I lose my driving privileges? I knew he wouldn't yell at me, but I also knew that he wouldn't spontaneously break into song and dance.

But Dad didn't respond like I expected. He reacted gently, asking how the accident happened and then expressing gratefulness that I wasn't hurt. He told me that he had made similar driving blunders, and that he had done things far worse. There were no angry or sarcastic comments, no belittling or criticizing, only a gentle reminder to be more careful in the car.

Dad's gentle, humble response affected me deeply. It warmed my heart with affection for him and provided me with an outstanding example of God-honoring parenting. He showed me what it means to be a humble leader and for that I'm deeply grateful.

But why did Dad pursue humility? Did it make his parenting any more effective? Yes, it most certainly did. Because of his humility, Dad's parenting was marked by God's grace.

Why Humility?

In Scripture we're told that God hates pride and delights in humility. James 4:6 says, "God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble." In Isaiah 66:1-2 we read, “Thus says the LORD: "Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool; what is the house that you would build for me, and what is the place of my rest? All these things my hand has made, and so all these things came to be, declares the LORD. But this is the one to whom I will look: he who is humble and contrite in spirit and trembles at my word.” God loves humility and pours out grace on those who pursue it. Just as the needle of a compass always points due north, so the needle of God's grace points to those who are humble. And God's opposition to pride is just as strong as his love of humility. Pride is a stench in God's nostrils, a sin that he passionately opposes.

God opposes the proud parent. He stands in the way of the father who treats his kids with condescension. He opposes the mother who responds arrogantly and angrily to the disobedience of her children. The humble father, on the other hand, positions himself to receive God's lavish grace. Like a father eager to give his son a new bicycle, so God is eager to pour out his grace on the humble.

As a parent, I don't want God as my opponent. I don't want the maker of the universe putting stumbling blocks in my path. I want to experience the wonderful, life-changing grace of God. I need to be humble. I need to be like my dad.

Dad was hungry for the grace of God, and he wanted his parenting to be motivated and empowered by grace. So what did he do? He made every effort to be humble. It wasn't easy and he was snared by the cords of pride many times. He didn't always respond gently to our sins and blunders. Like every other parent, he struggled with anger, impatience, and arrogance toward us. But he fought for humility, and God honored his efforts.

Apology Accepted

What did my Dad's humility look like practically? First, he regularly asked our forgiveness. Dad was by no means perfect and he would be the first to admit it. He was a desperately sinful man who had a bunch of desperately sinful kids, and those kids often tempted their dad to be angry. I personally provided my dad with many opportunities to sin during my formative years. My specialty was arguing. It would start with Dad asking me to do a chore around the house that I wasn't in the mood to perform, such as cleaning the bathroom. Almost involuntarily my face would begin contorting into a pained expression, as if a red-hot nail was being rammed into my hand, and a short groan would slip through my lips. Then I would seek to delegate.

“Can David do it? He hasn't done anything all day.”

“No Stephen, I want you to do it right now.”

Next I would call into question my dad's sense of fairness. “But I always clean the bathroom. I've cleaned it for a week straight. Can Beth clean it?”

“Stephen, I'm not going to argue about this,” Dad would respond, a slight touch of impatience in his voice.

Sometimes I would try to stall. “Can I do it in fifteen minutes? I'm right in the middle of something.”

“Stephen, you're lying on the floor drawing on your stomach with a blue pen. I want you to do it now.” By this point Dad's voice would have a definite edge to it.

As a last resort I would simply voice my deep displeasure. “This isn't fair,” I would grumble. This would usually push Dad over the edge.

“Alright, you want to talk about fair?” Dad would retort, his voice raised in anger. “I should make you clean the entire house, that would be fair. I'm asking you to do a simple task and you keep arguing with me. Now I want you to clean the bathroom now or there's going to be some serious consequences!”

This ultimatum usually ended all discussion and I would perform the assigned task with all the cheerfulness of a slave laborer. Even a casual observer could tell that both Dad and I were angry.

But Dad wouldn't allow his anger or my anger to drive a wedge between us. It wouldn't be long before Dad would humbly come to me and say, “Stephen, would you please forgive me for becoming angry with you?” These words were like sunshine for my soul, melting my cold heart and leading me to repent as well. Ephesians 4:26 says, “...do not let the sun go down on your anger.” Dad refused to let the sun set on any unresolved conflict between him and his children.

Notice that when apologizing, my dad said, “Please forgive me,” rather than, “I'm sorry.” The small difference in words represents a huge difference in humility. When we say, “Please forgive me”, we're implying that we've sinned against the other person and need to be forgiven. The words “I'm sorry”, only imply that we're sorry about the way things turned out. “Please forgive me” puts us at the mercy of another person; “I'm sorry” doesn't. This fact was impressed upon me by my dad at a very young age and remains with me to this day.

The proud father refuses to ask forgiveness from his child. Why? Because he's convinced that he hasn't done any wrong. He proudly believes that he's always right and that his child is always wrong. Anger and impatience are justified in his mind as necessary. Scripture speaks clearly to this attitude. Proverbs 12:15 says, “The way of a fool is right in his own eyes, but a wise man listens to advice.”

Parents, we must set an example of humility for our children. Let us resolve to ask their forgiveness any time we sin against them. Don't believe the lie that you're always right and your children are always wrong. When you sin against them, don't just say, “I'm sorry about what happened.” Humbly ask for their forgiveness. In doing so you will bring honor to God by your humility.

Correction Rejection

Not only did Dad ask our forgiveness, but he also responded graciously to our correction. It wasn't unusual for one of us to bring a word of correction to my dad when we thought he'd sinned. With all the tact of a drill sergeant, one of us would say something like, “Dad, it sounded like you were kind of harsh with David a few minutes ago.” Or, “Dad, were you angry with Beth when you were talking to her?”

There wasn't much grace or mercy in my correcting words, and I don't think that Dad particularly enjoyed them. It's not a pleasant thing to have your zit-faced thirteen year-old son tell you that you were sinning in anger. But I never recall him saying the words, “I think that you're wrong.” In fact, I can't even remember him defending himself.

I remember one humorous example clearly. Our family was taking a trip to another state where Dad was scheduled to speak at a church. In typical Altrogge family fashion, we left later than we intended and were running behind schedule. It looked like Dad would have just enough time to get to the church and deliver his message. That is until we saw the orange “Road Work” signs and the line of cars beginning to form ahead of us.

After several minutes of sitting in traffic, Dad turned to us and said in a supremely confident voice, “Kids, it's in times like these that it's good to trust in the sovereignty of God.” We all nodded in agreement, glad that our dad had such unshakable trust in the plans of God. But after a few more minutes passed without us moving so much as an inch, Dad began to look at his watch. Finally he couldn't take it anymore.

“Oh, this is bad!” he exclaimed. We looked at him incredulously.

“What happened to the sovereignty of God?” my mom asked. He thought for a moment and then gave us a sheepish grin, aware that he had no way of defending himself.

“Oh yeah, God is sovereign. He's in control. I need to remember that.” Not only did we correct him, but we mocked him the rest of the trip for his momentary lapse.

Why did Dad respond humbly to our regular correction? Because he knew that God speaks and convicts through those around us, even our young children. Dad didn't presume that because we were young and immature, God couldn't use us in his life. He knew that if God could speak to Balaam through a mangy donkey (Numbers 22:28), he could certainly speak through children. Not wanting to miss the sweet conviction of the Holy Spirit, Dad sought to humbly respond to our immature rebukes.

How do we respond to our children when they point out our sinful attitudes and actions? Do we make it easy for our children to bring correction into our life? When they do bring correction, do we respond with a furious tongue-lashing or with humble gratefulness? If we are to parent in a way that honors God, we must humbly respond to the correction of our children.

A Partner In Crime

I don't like confessing my sin to another person. It's awkward, embarrassing, and humiliating. At times I beat around the bush, trying to confess my sin in a way that lets me keep at least a shred of dignity.

If you want to make it easy for a person to confess sin to you, there are certain things you should avoid saying. I've compiled a list below of the top ten.

1. “You did what?!?”

2. “I'm surprised you weren't arrested.”

3. “Wow, that's a new one.”

4. “I thought you were done with that.”

5. “It sounds like you might be possessed by a demon.”

6. “You need professional help.”

7. “You're not serious are you?”

8. “I thought that only happened in movies.”

9. “Here we go again.”

10. “I've never struggled with that.”

While most of the list is silly, I'm afraid the last one is communicated by parents all too often. With an air of superiority they tell their children, “I've never done anything like that!” Such harsh words leave our children feeling belittled and fearful of having their misdeeds exposed. But in God's kindness, I never heard those awful, soul-crushing words.

Throughout my childhood there were many humiliating moments when my sin was exposed for my dad to see. This would happen in one of two ways. Either a) I would confess my sin to my dad, or b) I would be caught in the act.

How painful those moments were, as I stood shame-faced before my dad, communicating the ways I had given in to my sinful desires. There's no pleasant way to confess sin to another person. It never feels natural and it's impossible to weave it into the normal flow of conversation. It just doesn't work to say, “Speaking of the rainy weather, I've really been struggling with lust lately.”

In light of this, my dad made every effort to make confession as easy as possible. Galatians 6:1 says, “Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness.” Gentleness characterized my dad's response to our sin. He was always quick to identify with us, saying things like, “Stephen, I've struggled with that same thing,” or, “I've done things much worse than that.” These humble words melted my heart and made it much easier to confess my sin.

Dad was never shocked by my confessions. There were never raised eyebrows, low whistles, or exclamations of, “What were you thinking?” He wasn't surprised by my sin. Why? Because he was intimately familiar with the doctrine of sin and knew the depths of his own wickedness. Dad was a scholar of his own heart, having studied it for many years, and he was well aware of his own sinfulness. He knew what wicked thoughts and desires coursed through his own heart, and thus wasn't surprised when he saw the same things in his children. He also knew, as it says in Jeremiah 17:9, “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?” Sin didn't surprise Dad.

Do the sins of our children surprise us? Do we identify with our children in their sin, or do we act shocked and appalled? Do we make it easy for them to confess? A true understanding of our own hearts should drastically affect the way we relate to our children. Sin shouldn't shock or surprise us, as if we didn't expect it. If we are to honor God as parents, it's crucial that we respond with humility and gentleness to our children's sin.

You Are Forgiven My Son

Have you ever experienced the breath-stealing panic that comes with breaking something that belongs to someone else? The fear that comes with telling someone that you ruined one of their prized possessions. See if you can relate to any of these examples.

Example #1 of Stephen breaking things owned by his father: Several years ago I was sitting in my dad's music studio at his computer, recording a piece of music. Dad prizes this computer. It contains countless hours of recorded music and is one of his primary song writing tools. In fact, Dad has one of those “Baby Inside” stickers on the window of his studio to ensure that the firefighters rescue his computer in the event of a house fire (just kidding).

Being the bright young lad that I was, I thought it might be a good idea to sip on a cup of steaming coffee while using Dad's priceless electronic baby. Things were going beautifully until my hand struck the side of my coffee cup and knocked it over. I watched in horror as a small, brown waterfall poured over the edge of the desk and down onto the keyboard, creating a miniature swamp of coffee and lettered keys. Needless to say, I replaced the keyboard.

Example #2 of Stephen breaking things owned by his father: My dad owns an expensive acoustic guitar that was given to him in the early 1980's. Generous to a fault, Dad would let me borrow his four-figure piece of wood on a regular basis, and I would return it in tip-top shape.

This arrangement worked well until one bitterly cold winter night when I accidentally left Dad's guitar in the trunk of the car. When I retrieved the guitar the following day, I discovered that the cold air had created a web of tiny cracks in the clear finish of the guitar. It still played fine but its beauty had been destroyed by the blast of cold air.

I should have been reamed out by my dad for my colossal stupidity. He never should have let me touch another piece of his property again, or at least until I proved myself responsible. But Dad didn't bust my chops for soaking his keyboard or cracking the guitar finish. There was no screaming, no attempts to make me feel unnecessarily guilty. Instead, Dad forgave me. In fact, Dad always freely forgave me, no matter what the transgression.

I can't count the number of times I sinned against my dad during my childhood. I was disrespectful, argumentative, angry, deceitful, and ungrateful toward him. Yet Dad was always quick to forgive me the moment I apologized. He disciplined me, yes. But he never held a grudge against me, never complained against me, and never gave me the cold shoulder. His forgiveness was free and expansive, not accompanied by any threats or warnings. For example, many parents say things like, “I forgive you, but you need to make sure this never happens again.” Not Dad. He was quick to show mercy and slow to become angry.

What was it that prevented Dad from becoming angry and prompted him to show mercy? Several truths. First, Dad knew that anger was absolutely useless. James 1:20 says, “...for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness that God requires.” Dad knew that becoming angry wouldn't help me become more like Jesus Christ. Through anger he might be able to force me into external obedience, but ultimately there would be no lasting, God-honoring change. He would be creating a little Pharisee who obeyed on the outside but had no desire for God on the inside.

Second, Dad learned to look at his own heart first. Our sinful hearts are always looking to pin the blame on someone else when we sin. When our children sin against us, our first thought is often, “They're making me angry.” It's as if we have a giant, red “ANGER” button on our chest, and it feels like our children are intentionally poking it. But no one can make us angry. Anger is the overflow of our sinful hearts when we don't get what we want. Dad knew that if he was angry, it was because he wasn't getting something that he craved. He wanted time to relax at the end of each day and was tempted to become angry when we didn't go to bed immediately. He wanted a neat and orderly house. When the house began to look more like a bombed out war-zone he would feel anger rising within his heart. Dad learned to identify these sinful cravings and put them to death by the power of the Spirit.

These truths served as a spiritual straight jacket for my dad, restraining him when he was tempted to become angry and moving him to freely forgive us.

Parents, how do we respond when our children begin pressing our buttons? Are we quick to show mercy and slow to become angry? Are we eager to forgive our children, or do we cling to grudges? By God's grace, I'm quick to show forgiveness to others. Why? Because my dad was quick to show forgiveness to me. I want to be like my dad. If we are to glorify God as parents we must be quick to forgive our children.

* * *

Dear Dad,

I'm proud to say that I haven't been involved in any car accidents since I totaled your car several years ago. Well, that's not entirely true. There was the time that I smashed my side mirror against the side mirror of a parked car. The result of that accident? My mirror was obliterated, leaving a trail of cheap plastic in the street. The other car didn't have a scratch on it. Then there was the time that I was rear-ended and had the back of my car ripped open like a giant flesh wound. Or more recently, when the rear end of my car was smashed in by a guy who forgot to use his brakes. But other than these isolated incidents, my driving record is clear as a cloudless day. Plus, these accidents happened in my car, not yours.

I've learned something from these driving mishaps: a car wreck hurts more than just the car. It hurts to fork out vast sums of money for car repairs and to see the insurance rates spike like a blip on a heart monitor. It's a pain to leave the car in the shop and be without a vehicle for long periods of time. It's a pain to get a call from the mechanics and have them tell you that they need to fix a part you didn't even know existed, such as the transubradiator or the dual-axle piston valve. I've learned that I don't like car wrecks.

That's why your response to me totaling your car is even more amazing. I inconvenienced you in a major way. Yet you didn't explode in anger when I told you about the nice car that you “used” to own. Instead, you responded with humility and gentleness. These two attributes seemed to characterize much of your parenting and are a standard which I want to follow as well.

When I think of your humility, I immediately think of the many times you asked for my forgiveness. How humbling that must have been. You were older, wiser, and much more godly than me, yet you still came to me in repentance. By God's grace, I want to follow your example. I want to be quick to admit that I am wrong and quick to ask the forgiveness of my wife and children.

When I think of your humility, I also think of your attitude toward correction. It boggles my mind that you allowed me to correct you. I was a spiritually immature young man, you were a pastor of over twenty years. But that didn't prevent you from humbly accepting any words of correction that I might bring. How could I not be affected by such humility?

And how quick you were to forgive me! Dad, to my shame, I was often a disrespectful, argumentative, arrogant young man. I sinned against you and Mom too many times to count. Yet you always forgave me the moment I uttered any words of repentance. You were eager for me to be reconciled to you. And I never felt like you were giving me the cold shoulder or that you bore any grudge against me. You forgave freely, with no conditions. There was no fine print associated with your forgiveness. I'm so grateful for the grace you showed me, and I hope to extend that same grace to my family.

Finally Dad, when I think of your humility, I think of the way you identified with us in our sin. When I confessed a sin or was caught in a sin, you didn't chide me, rebuke me, or tell me that you were disappointed in me. Instead, you comforted and encouraged me, describing how you often struggled in similar ways. The gentle encouragement spurred me on in my pursuit of holiness, and for that I'm exceedingly grateful.

Dad, the world doesn't honor humility. Success, money, fame, friends - these are the things esteemed by the world. But God is impressed by humility and honors the humble in heart. When you stand before Him in heaven, you'll receive the reward for your humble parenting. I can't wait to see it.

Love,

Stephen

P.S. - Can I borrow the car?

Chapter 7

The Generous Giver

Everyone has an Edna in their life. Edna (names have been changed) was poor, complained constantly, and was always looking for a handout. She smelled musty and stale, like a room that hasn't been opened in years. She was missing teeth and always had a bedraggled, bag lady appearance. All conversations with Edna were one-sided. She would complain about life, and all you could do was listen. And she always needed money.

I don't remember when Edna first appeared on our doorstep, but she seemed to be a part of our lives from an early age. We could count on her to make an appearance at least once a month. The doorbell would ring, I would open the door, and standing on the porch would be Edna, wearing a heavy coat and clunky boots, even in the middle of summer. My stomach always lurched when I laid eyes on her. I didn't like her. She smelled funny, talked funny, and always wanted a hug. I hated giving her hugs.

Edna always wanted to talk to my mom or dad. They would make small talk for a few moments, with Edna complaining about her landlord or the pain in her foot, and then without fail, the talk would turn to money. She needed money for medicine, for food, for stamps. Something in me would recoil when I heard Edna ask for money. I didn't like the thought of my parents handing her cash.

But I noticed a different attitude in my parents. They almost always gave her money. Dad would pull out his wallet, rummage around for a moment, and then hand Edna a small amount of cash. Edna would thank my dad, command him to give her a hug, and tell us kids to be good and not to do drugs. Edna would then clomp down the street in her over-sized boots, turning around a few times to remind us kids to be good. It was a scene that was repeated over and over during my childhood.

My dad was a generous giver - a man with an open wallet and a big heart. He was generous toward his kids, generous toward those around him, and generous toward the poor, and his generosity profoundly affected me. Any generosity in my heart is the result of observing my dad. 1 Timothy 6:18 says of Christians, “They are to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share.” I saw this scripture lived out in my dad. In this chapter I'll attempt to paint a picture of his generosity.

The Borrowers

First, Dad was incredibly generous with his children. Have you ever known a tightwad? Someone who seems to experience great physical pain when parting with even the smallest sums of money? When their children ask for cash, they fish their wallet from their pocket, finger several bills, grimace as if passing a kidney stone, and then hand over a single dollar bill. Generosity is a foreign concept to these types of people.

How grateful I am that my dad wasn't like this. He was expansively generous with us when it came to his money and possessions. He always let us borrow his things and didn't cling to any of his possessions.

Sometimes this was a good thing, sometimes it wasn't so good. He regularly let me borrow his “costs-as-much-as-a-semester- of-college” Martin acoustic guitar so that I could lead worship at youth group. That was a good thing. I regularly smacked the guitar into walls, putting large, unsightly scratches into the finish. That was a bad thing. He let me borrow the car so I could spend time with friends. Good. I demolished the car in one fell swoop. Bad.

Yet in spite of all the dings, scratches, and dents I inflicted upon Dad's prized possessions, he continued to let me borrow them. Why? Because he was extraordinarily generous. Dad knew that guitars and cars had no eternal value and so sought to be as generous as possible.

Dad was also generous in the allowance that he gave us. He didn't owe us any money for the chores we did around the house. In fact, sometimes we did our chores so poorly that we should have paid him. There were many times when I reported to Dad that my room was fully clean, just as he had requested. Dad would take one look at my room, point out the socks balled up in the corner, the t-shirt lying on the bed, and the twelve action figures strewn about the floor, and tell me to call him again when I was done. We repeated this routine until the room was clean.

Why didn't Dad revoke my allowance, as he could and should have? Why did he pay me generously every week for doing a few measly chores around the house? Because he had a heart that overflowed with generosity toward his children. I need to be clear here. Dad didn't spoil me. It wasn't the amount of money we received that made Dad generous, it was the way he gave it.

Not only did Dad give us an allowance, he also treated us on a regular basis. Little League games were a prime example of this. At each game we were given between fifty cents and a dollar to spend on whatever we wanted. Oh the feasts that those precious quarters could buy! Hot dogs, grape soda, Lick-Em-Sticks, Warheads, Sour Patch Kids - the world was at our very sticky fingertips. Dad also took us out for ice cream, bought us drinks on road trips, and treated us to the extravagances of the McDonald's dollar menu. These acts of generosity were small, but they had a cumulative effect on me. Like a river slowly swelling and pushing against a dam, the small acts of generosity served to “push” me toward my dad, and laid the foundation for a deep friendship between us.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Dad's big heart also made Christmas a very special time. Christmas isn't about the presents, we all know that. But as a little boy, nothing is more thrilling than seeing a vast pile of presents crammed under the tree. The night before Christmas Eve, I would go to bed almost trembling with excitement. I couldn't wait to feast my eyes upon the multi-colored splendor that would appear under the tree overnight.

Christmas Eve morning would dawn, and sure enough, a glorious heap of beautifully wrapped packages would be nestled beneath the tree. But we didn't open the presents in the morning. According to a long standing Altrogge family tradition, presents were to be opened the night of Christmas Eve and not a moment before. And so we waited, and waited, and waited. As every person knows, time slows down in direct proportion to our level of excitement about something.

But the gifts made all the waiting worthwhile. My parents were extravagantly generous with us when it came to Christmas. They gave us many gifts, fun gifts, creative gifts, gifts we desperately wanted. They weren't trying to buy our love or to make up for a lack of parenting in some other area. They gave us gifts because they loved us deeply and had big, generous, God-honoring hearts. They loved to see the wild excitement on our faces as we swarmed the packages like a pack of wild dogs. They loved hearing the exclamations of, “I can't believe you got me the [insert present of choice].” Yes, Christmas was a wonderful time in the Altrogge household.

I should point out that my parents were also very diligent to teach us the true meaning of Christmas. They sought to remind us that Jesus, not presents, was the reason we celebrated. We often took time to pray together before opening our presents, thanking God for sending his son into a fallen world to redeem sinners. In this way my parents taught us to love the Giver more than the gifts.

How grateful I am for my dad's generosity. In Him, I saw the meaning of Acts 20:35, which says, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Parents, would our children say that we are generous toward them? Would they say that we overflow with generosity, or that we're stingy and tight-fisted? Are we more generous toward ourselves or toward our children? We serve an extravagantly generous God. Ponder for a moment the countless ways that God has been generous toward you. He saved you, changed you, cleansed you, made you a new person, and now pours out blessing after undeserved blessing upon you. Let us seek to reflect the generosity of God by being extravagantly generous toward our children.

The Picture on the Refrigerator

Dad's generosity toward me left a lasting mark on my life, but it was his generosity to the poor that had the greatest impact. Proverbs 14:21 says, “Whoever despises his neighbor is a sinner, but blessed is he who is generous towards the poor.” How generous Dad was toward the poor. His commitment to consistent giving struck a chord within my heart that resonates to this day. Dad's generous heart manifested itself in several ways.

First, he consistently poured money into organizations such as World Vision and Compassion International. Through these organizations, Dad was able to provide money for children in other countries who lived in obscene poverty. For many years, a picture of a thin boy named Aruldos was tacked to our refrigerator. Aruldos was our World Vision sponsored child, and every month we had the privilege of sending him money - money to put food in his stomach, money to keep him alive. Doing this made me realize that I was one of the rich kids in the world, one of the few who didn't go to bed racked with hunger pains.

Dad made it very clear to us that he gave money to World Vision. He didn't try to hide it out of some vague, philanthropic motive. No, he wanted to set a bold, God-honoring example for his children of giving to the poor.

His example was compelling. As I grew older and began to receive a steady income, giving became a part of my life as well. Like my dad, the Lord compelled me to give to the poor. I was keenly aware that I had been greatly blessed by God, and in light of this I desired to bless others. I've sponsored several World Vision children over the years and plan to continue doing so for the rest of my life.

Let's pause for a moment and do a quick financial analysis of our own lives. Where does our money go? Are we investing in things of eternal value or things that matter very little in light of heaven? Are we more committed to our cable package or to meeting the needs of the poor and oppressed? Proverbs 19:17 says, “Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the LORD, and he will repay him for his deed.” When we give to the poor, we are in reality giving to the Lord. Let us strive to be generous to the poor.

Dad also gave consistently and generously to our local church. He tithed faithfully, week after week, always being careful to set aside a portion of his income as a tithe to the Lord. And Dad taught us the importance of tithing as well. If my memory serves me correctly, Dad always ensured that we set aside a portion of our income as a tithe to the Lord. If we received a dollar, we had better be putting a dime in the basket on Sunday. Tithing wasn't an option in the Altrogge house, it was a way of life.

Think Globally, Act Locally

Money flowed from Dad's pockets on both a global and a local scale. As a senior pastor, he was well acquainted with the needs of those within the church. He knew when people were on the rocks, when rent wasn't paid, and when eviction was breathing down someone's neck. He was keenly aware of the financial needs of those within the church, and in many cases he would intervene, discretely slipping a check for several hundred dollars into the hand of a needy member. Sometimes he was paid back, other times he wasn't. But it didn't really matter. Dad gave out of a generous heart, not a banker's heart. He was concerned about God's glory, not repayment of the loan.

Giving was simply a part of the Altrogge household. We knew that Dad channeled money to those in need, and we came to see giving as the normal, God-pleasing response to need. This environment of generosity would go a long way in shaping my attitude toward giving.

And then there was Edna. Indiana, Pennsylvania isn't rife with poverty. You don't see beggars panhandling on street corners or homeless people curled up over steam vents. But there are people like Edna.

Edna was dirty, lived off welfare checks, and wasn't liked by many people. She always had a complaint to voice. One day it would be that her landlord wasn't treating her right, the next day it would be that her doctor wasn't giving her the treatment she needed. Talking, or rather listening, to Edna for any length of time was difficult to say the least. And as I mentioned earlier, she was always looking for a handout. She would show up on our doorstep at random hours and ask for twenty dollars to buy groceries or medicine. My selfish heart was annoyed by these visits, and if it was up to me she wouldn't have gotten much cash.

Dad would freely admit that these visits annoyed him at times too. Often times being asked for money puts an unpleasant squeeze on our hearts. But God's Spirit was at work within my dad, helping him to defeat his selfishness and giving him compassion for Edna. The Spirit of God prompted him to give freely, frequently, and generously to Edna, without thought of repayment, and to this day he still gives to Edna on a regular basis.

As the years went by and I observed Dad's consistent generosity toward Edna, my heart of stone began to melt. By God's grace, I found myself growing in a generous spirit toward her, a spirit that moved me to open up my wallet when I saw her on the street. Yes, my heart still cringes a bit when I see her clumping toward me in her over-sized boots and winter jacket. But not like it used to. God used my dad's example to change my sinful heart.

Follow The Instructions

I learned from both Dad's example and his instruction. Throughout my childhood, Dad consistently instructed me on biblical principles of giving. He would tell me where his money was going and then say something like, “I always want to be generous with my money because God has been so generous to me.” That was it. No detailed lectures on the meaning of the Greek word for “give”, no three-point sermons on why we should give. Just a few, simple instructions repeated over and over.

There was one phrase that became Dad's rallying cry for giving. Over and over I heard him say, “You can't out give God.” Those five simple words gripped my soul, always pulling me toward generosity. To this day they echo in my head as I write my tithe check on Sunday mornings.

Parents, what sort of example are we setting for our children? Where does our money go? Are we spending lavishly on ourselves and giving little to the poor? If we are giving to the poor, do we inform and instruct our children on biblical principles of giving? Do they know what it means to be generous?

If we are to live in a manner pleasing to the Lord, we must be growing in generosity. If we are to parent for the glory of God, we must be regularly instructing our children regarding generosity.

My dad would be the first to tell you that he's very selfish. In his flesh, he doesn't enjoy parting with his hard-earned money. But the Spirit of God can work great changes in a man, and I've seen my dad transformed into a generous giver. May God work the same change in us.

* * *

Dear Dad,

As you know, I recently bought a big boy's toy. After much thought and deliberation, I made the purchase I'd been dreaming about for years. I bought a shiny, new scooter.

This isn't a little kid's toy that putters around the block and struggles up hills like a wheezy old man. No, this is a two-stroke speed-machine, capable of hitting 40 mph in a strong tailwind. I'm now an urban cowboy, riding high in the saddle of my scooter, with my trusty cellphone at my side. I must admit, my helmet does look a bit goofy, like something out of a 1950's science fiction movie, but it protects my head, and that's what counts.

The night I bought the scooter I brought it out to your house, eager to show off my latest, greatest purchase. I was excited to let you guys take it for a spin around the neighborhood, eager for you to feel the wind whipping through your hair and the bugs bouncing off your teeth. I wanted my family to experience that deep sense of pleasure which psychologists call “scooter euphoria”.

In years past I probably wouldn't have wanted to share my scooter with anyone else. I would've selfishly kept it to myself, unwilling to share my joy with others. But over the past ten years God has been slowly breaking me of my selfishness, primarily through your example. God has used your example of overflowing generosity as a surgeon uses a scalpel, to cut away at the cancerous selfishness that lurks within my heart.

Dad, you were unbelievably generous with me throughout my childhood. Considering the way I treated your prized possessions, it amazes me that you let me borrow them as often as you did. I scratched your guitars, banged up your cars, and generally mistreated much of what you let me borrow. Yet for some reason you continued to lend your possessions to “Stephen the Destroyer”.

You were also overwhelmingly generous in the way you gave me money. If there was one kid who didn't deserve an allowance, it was me. I did my chores grudgingly, with a general sense of disgust. When you would ask to me to perform a small task around the house I would respond as if you had just asked me to eat a large plateful of cow dung. I didn't like chores, which I'm sure was very evident to you, and if I were you, I would have revoked my allowance in a heartbeat. But your merciful, generous heart always won the day.

And then there was Christmas. Oh what delightful, heartwarming memories I have of Christmas. You and Mom always took pains to make Christmas both a memorable and exciting holiday. You found such joy in giving us gifts, and our excitement became your excitement. You made Christmas my favorite holiday.

Dad, by God's grace, I want to be as generous with my family as you were with me. I want to have an open wallet and a big heart, a heart that's eager to bless my children. My selfish desires lead me toward being a tightwad, but I desperately want to fight against these tendencies. Thank you for being so generous toward me.

I have to admit, there were times when it pained me to see you giving so much money away to the poor. In my selfishness, I wanted you to spend that money on our family and our pleasures. But now I'm so grateful that you emptied your pockets to bless the poor. Proverbs 19:17 says, “Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the LORD.” Thank you for lending to the poor. You always made giving to the poor a priority, rather than an optional part of your life, and you always said the words, “You can't out give God.” Those words are the battle cry of my heart as I wage war against my selfishness. As I write out my tithe check or send money to World Vision, I hear your words echoing in my head.

There are times even now when I struggle to be generous with Edna. My stone cold heart just doesn't want to give her money. I would rather spend money on myself. But your example always calls me back to generosity. God uses your generosity toward Edna as a goad for my heart, compelling me to love her and to help meet her needs.

I can't imagine how much money you've given away in your lifetime. You could have had a nicer car with heated leather seats or a bigger house, but you had eternity on your mind. By God's grace, I'll give away as much, if not more than you did. I'm trying to follow in your footsteps.

Love,

Stephen

P.S. - I recently realized that you never paid me my allowance between the ages of 15 and 18. I'm coming over to collect.

Chapter 8

The Memory Maker

Wiffleball is a game of nuances. The ball weighs less than an ounce, and the slightest breath of wind can make a pitch flutter, dance, shimmy, or dive. The bat is thin like a sword, making it difficult to strike the ball solidly, and seasoned wiffleball players are all too familiar with the “whiff” sound a bat makes after completely missing the ball. The rules of wiffleball are quite complex as well and are hotly debated among the experts of the wiffleball circuit. Take the concept of “ghost runners”, for example. Due to the fact that most games of wiffleball are played with five players or less, it is a regular practice to use what are called “ghost runners”. A ghost runner is an imaginary runner who takes the place of a real runner who must bat. For example, if I'm on third base when it's my turn to bat, I must call “ghost runner” and then take my at-bat. This brings up a question of crucial importance that must be answered prior to the game taking place: are ghost runners allowed to score runs, or can only real people score runs? The answer to this question will most likely determine the outcome of the game.

Another important rule that must be discussed prior to a game is that of “pegging” or “beaning” a base runner. Traditionally, a fielder is allowed to strike (a.k.a peg, bean) a runner with the ball if the runner is not securely attached to one of the bases. Any runner struck in this manner is officially out. However, in some of the more conservative wiffleball circles, pegging is outlawed due to the fact that it hurts like crazy to be hit with a wiffleball from three feet away. It's questions of this manner which must be carefully sorted out before any serious game of wiffleball. How, you ask, did I come to be so knowledgeable about the game of wiffleball? By the careful tutoring of my father, an accomplished wiffleball player who won several international titles during the 1960's.

Wiffleball and Tickle Fights

My dad had several goals as a father. One of those goals was to create wonderful memories for his children. Many people have awful, heart-wrenching, nauseating memories of their childhood. Memories of angry parents, indifferent parents, parents who spent hour after sickening hour in front of the television. My dad wanted to keep us from that at all costs, and so he strove to make memories with us.

The memory making process began in the home, and it simply involved spending lots of unhurried time together. We wrestled with Dad, had tickle fights with him, and tried to escape the “dad monster” who came after us so frequently. We played a game called “Gospel Bill and Nicodemus”, which, as some of you may have picked up on, was named after the Christian television show “Gospel Bill”. The rules of the game were simple. Dad would be on the living room floor, positioned on his hands and knees. We would stand close to him, just out of arm's reach. Any time we uttered the words, “Gospel Bill”, Dad would come charging after us like a rabid bull, intent on grabbing and tickling us. The only way to stop this relentless onslaught was to say “Nicodemus” (who was another character on the show), which meant that by law, Dad had to stop tickling us. We loved that game.

Wiffleball was another favorite game in the Altrogge household. Dad spent hours playing wiffleball with us. He would throw us slow, underhand pitches, which we would then smash over his head. We would giggle as we ran around the bases, Dad would retrieve the ball, and then it would happen all over again. Dad ran miles during those wiffleball games.

And then there were the stories. My dad was a master story-teller, and bedtime was story time. We would settle down under the covers, eager with anticipation, ready for the next tale of adventure or eerie science fiction. The characters in Dad's stories often bore an uncanny resemblance to members of my family (see previous remarks regarding characters named Jack and Jimmy). Jack, Jimmy, and Ozzy Snozzy enjoyed adventures of the most incredible kind. They swam through oceans using tiny underwater breathing devices. They were masters of the sky, kept aloft by super powered rocket packs. And of course they traveled through time, using a simple time-warp device. David and I loved these stories so much that Dad recorded them onto tapes so that we could listen to them as we fell asleep. I have delightful memories of falling asleep to the story of “Jack, Jimmy, Ozzy Snozzy, and the Magical Genie Lamp”.

Parents, do we spend unhurried, fun time with our children at home? Do we wrestle with them, tickle them, hug them, be silly with them, and simply express how much we enjoy being with them? The times my dad and I spent together being silly prepared me for the times we would spend together being serious. The times of unhurried fun and excitement paved the way for times of unhurried biblical instruction. I'm grateful for the serious times, and I'm also deeply grateful for the silly times.

Memory Monday

Mondays were a special day for making memories, because Monday was Dad's day off. I loved Mondays and looked forward to each one as if it were a national holiday. We never knew what exciting event Dad had planned for the day. Would he take us to Getty Heights park to play on the giant yellow slide, or would he take us fishing? Would we all go out to lunch together, or would we gather in the den for movie night? All we knew was that some glorious adventure awaited us.

I have distinct memories of lying in my bed on Sunday night, pleading to God with all the intensity an eight year-old could muster that it wouldn't rain the next day so that Dad could take us to the park. The first thing I would do Monday morning was look out the window to check the weather. If the sun was shining it meant a glorious day for the Altrogge family.

For many years, even while I was in college, Monday night was family night. Everybody stayed at home, and we simply hung out together. Sometimes we watched a movie, sometimes we read books, other times we just sat around a fire in the backyard and talked. The point of family night was to spend fun, unhurried time together.

To this day I have sweet memories of Mondays. I'm so grateful that Dad used his day off to spend time with us. He could have spent the entire day doing only the things that he enjoyed doing, and I'm sure that on many occasions he was tempted to be selfish with his time. He could have spent the entire day working around the house, or writing songs, or just relaxing. But instead, Dad spent his time making memories with us. He planned to make memories.

Parents, do we have a day set aside for making memories with our kids? Is there a day that is special in the minds of our children, a day that they can get excited about? Monday is my day off too, and now that I have my own family, I hope to make Monday a special day. I want to make Monday a memory day.

Home For The Holidays

There were several days out of the year when our excitement and anticipation rose to a fever pitch. Holidays, particularly Christmas, Thanksgiving, and the Fourth of July, were special times of memory making in the Altrogge house. These were sacred days to us, days set aside for the purpose of fun, laughter, silliness, and joy.

Let me give you a snapshot of each of these holidays, starting with the Fourth of July. The majority of the memory making didn't actually happen on July 4th, but on the evening of July 3rd, which was when the annual Altrogge backyard camp out took place. This was no small endeavor. After dinner, Dad would drag our gargantuan eight person tent into the backyard and begin the tedious process of constructing our shelter for the night. After the tent had been erected, Dad would build a fire so that we could roast marshmallows and hot dogs. Some of the roasted marshmallows ended up smothered between two graham crackers and a nugget of chocolate in the form of a “S'more”, but most of them ended up as flaming marshmallow napalms. As every Boy Scout worth his badges knows, there's nothing more exquisitely satisfying than seeing a marshmallow burst into flame, balloon to twice its normal size, and then slowly drip into the fire.

After filling up on marshmallows, hot dogs, and other camping delicacies, we bedded down for the night. If I close my eyes I can still remember the feel of the hard ground beneath my sleeping bag, the musty smell of a tent that hadn't been used since the previous Fourth of July, and the symphony of crickets lulling me to sleep. Dad always brought the evening to a close with a story, usually one featuring Jack, Jimmy, and Ozzy Snozzy. Those were sweet summer days.

Thanksgiving was a wonderful time of memory making as well. How I loved Thanksgiving dinner. What glorious feasts we had! Turkey roasted to golden perfection, heaping mounds of mashed potatoes, rolls that were crusty on the outside and pillow-soft on the inside, cranberry sauce that forced your face into an involuntary pucker, and sumptuous pumpkin pies loaded with an obscene amount of whipped cream. King Arthur himself would have counted it a privilege to feast at our table. Yet it's not the dinners that I remember most, it's the breakfasts.

Early on in the history of the Altrogge family, Dad instituted a Thanksgiving tradition that continues to this day: the cowboy breakfast. To understand the importance of the cowboy breakfast you must first understand the importance of table manners in the Altrogge house. My dad was a stickler for table manners. He wanted us to hold our fork in the proper hand, to avoid scraping our teeth against the silverware, and to chew with our mouths firmly closed. We were to break our bread in half before buttering it, put down our utensils before taking a drink, and say “please” when requesting the salt. Dad taught me good manners, and for that I'm grateful.

But on Thanksgiving morning all this went out the window, and we were allowed to eat like rough-and-tumble cowboys, without a hint of manners. Dad would rise early and begin cooking eggs, sausage, bacon, fried potatoes, fried onions, and even fried apples on a few occasions. Then we would all sit down at the table and the chaos would begin. We crammed food into our mouths using nothing but our fingers, demanded in gruff tones that things be passed our way, and emitted loud, silverware shaking burps. Dad always insisted on talking in what he thought sounded like a cowboy voice, making references to “rounding up the loose cattle” or “fixing the fence up on the North 40”. Rising above all the burps, slurps, and cowboy lingo was the continual sound of laughter. The cowboy breakfast was a gloriously fun time, and I have wonderful memories of leaving the table with a full belly, eggs smeared on my face, and a smile on my lips. Lord willing, my kids will get to enjoy cowboy breakfasts with their dad as well.

The Fourth of July was wonderful, and Thanksgiving was delightful, but neither of these holidays could hold a candle to Christmas in terms of pure, unadulterated fun. Christmas was the apex of Altrogge family traditions, a holiday sacred to me for both spiritual and secular reasons.

The joy of Christmas began with the purchase of a Christmas tree early in the month of December. Dad, and anybody else that wanted to go, would venture out into the cold to select the tree of the year. We never could be quite sure what type of tree Dad would bring back. Sometimes he returned with a glorious, full-bodied tree, that seemed to have a North Pole-like glow emanating from within. Other times he returned with a tree that looked as if it had been run through a tree chipper. But either way, we always had a tree.

We celebrated the purchase of our tree with a decorating party. Mom would go to the store and purchase cookies and eggnog, and Dad would run strings of lights around the tree. When Mom and Dad had finished their respective duties, the decorating party would commence. Christmas carols would be pumped throughout the house, cookies would be jammed into our mouths, and ornaments would be hung haphazardly about the tree. When the tree was fully decorated, the lights would be turned off and we would sit around it, bathing in the Christmas glow. It was a glorious time.

But the real day of glory was Christmas Eve. Contrary to most families, we opened our presents on the night of Christmas Eve rather than Christmas morning. But to arrive at Christmas Eve night meant that we had to wait through all of Christmas Eve day, and that was extraordinarily difficult for us as young children. And so my dad devised a series of elaborate and exciting traditions, all designed to make the day pass more quickly.

The traditions and memories began the moment we opened our eyes on the morning of Christmas Eve. Positioned at the foot of our beds would be a stocking, carefully laid there by my mom during the night. The stocking would be loaded with a vast array of delightful items, ranging from chewing gum to chocolate bars to new pens and pencils, and it was always topped off with a small gift, like a book or gift certificate to McDonald's.

But as everyone knows, stocking excitement only lasts so long, and so after lunch it was off to the movies. Every year, for as long as I can remember, we've seen a movie on Christmas Eve. Of course this tradition was originally designed to kill time during the afternoon, but now it's a tradition that I refuse to go without. To this day I eagerly look forward to seeing a movie with my family on Christmas Eve. Last year we saw the movie Night at the Museum. The movie was lame, but I still had a great time. Why? Because it was all part of the Christmas Eve tradition.

The movie would usually conclude in the late afternoon, giving Mom just enough time to get home and cook the Christmas Eve dinner. At some point in my early childhood Dad decided to inject our Christmas Eve dinners with a little imagination. So he and Mom began saying that we were eating dinner at “The Purple Cricket”, implying that our kitchen had been magically transformed into a gourmet restaurant. They would dim the lights, pull out candles, and make references to “The Purple Cricket” throughout the meal. It was a small touch, but it made dinner much more fun. I'm thinking that my kids will enjoy some Christmas Eve meals in a gourmet restaurant as well, although I can't decide if we'll be eating in “The Green Grasshopper” or “The Red Boar”.

The end of dinner meant that the time for presents was almost upon us. All that stood between us and the glorious heap of packages under the tree was a short drive around town to survey the Christmas decorations. Our annual Christmas light tour was a bittersweet tradition, one that we both loved and hated at the same time. It was difficult to load into the car and look at lights, knowing that the moment of glory was so close at hand. But at the same time, it was another wonderful way of making memories as a family.

When all the traditions of Christmas Eve had been fully satisfied, Mom and Dad would unleash us upon the presents. It was a spectacle to behold. Bits of wrapping paper exploding into the air, periodic screams of delight, hugs and kisses lavishly dispensed, and a general atmosphere of pure chaos. It was a sweet time indeed.

Will I carry these traditions on in my own family? Hopefully. I hope to have backyard camp outs and cowboy breakfasts and Christmas Eve movies. I hope to invent some of my own traditions as well. Because traditions make memories.

A Trip To Remember

I used to like the McDonald's Big Mac. There was just something wonderful about two all-beef patties smothered in “special sauce” (now there's a creative name), lettuce, onions, and pickles, all piled onto a sesame seed bun. Now the thought of a Big Mac makes me retch. But that's okay, because my aversion to Big Macs was born on a family trip to Boston, a trip on which wonderful memories were made.

Throughout his tenure as the pastor of our church, my dad has been asked to speak at other churches on numerous occasions. When we were younger Dad would often take the entire family on these trips in an effort to knit the family together. It was on one of these trips that my hatred of the Big Mac was born.

Dad had been asked to speak at a church in Boston, and the entire family was going with him. So the six of us jammed into our Chevy Celebrity station wagon (that's three in the front, three in the back) and made the brutally long journey from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts.

As fate would have it, McDonald's had just introduced a new, earth-shaking deal on the Big Mac. For a limited time, one could walk into McDonald's with a mere two dollars and come out with not one, but two Big Macs. To my frugal parents, this was news from heaven itself. We kids loved eating at McDonald's, and now my parents could afford to buy us our fill of Big Macs. We must have eaten at McDonald's fifteen times during that trip, and each meal consisted of one primary ingredient: the Big Mac. By the end of the trip the very thought of a Big Mac nearly caused me to gag, and since that time I have eaten exactly one Big Mac. I still eat at McDonald's, but I won't touch anything with “special sauce” on it.

And yet I still fondly remember our trip to Boston. Dad could have easily gone without us, sparing himself the discomfort of traveling with and caring for five additional people. But because we went with him, our family ties were strengthened and sweet memories were formed. I remember the time we spent together in the hotel, the field trip to the U.S.S. Constitution, and the restaurant we ate at called “The Ground Round”, where a kid's meal cost a penny for each pound the kid weighed (an advantage for skinny kids like me). And of course I remember the Big Mac.

Tagging along with Dad on his preaching trips was a great deal of fun, but it was the family vacations that I really loved. For as long as I can remember, my family has taken an extended vacation together. My parents have been very intentional about setting aside at least one week per year for the family to get away and have fun together.

Sweet memories were made on these vacations. Many of my favorite childhood memories are closely tied to the beach, since this is where we took the majority of our vacations. In fact, it was at the beach that the “Wave Fighters” were born. The Wave Fighters, for those of you who are uninformed, was a small, elite group of men and women dedicated to fighting the ocean's waves. This group was founded by my dad and me when I was approximately three years old, and we had one simple goal: fight the waves. Dad and I would stand at the water's edge, crouched in a fighting stance, with our fists clenched and a look of grim determination on our faces. As the waves would come rolling toward us we would charge them at full speed, whooping, yelling, and occasionally screaming, “Wave fighters!” When water met flesh, the battle began. We would furiously throw punches at the waves while the waves struggled to pull us under. Sometimes we won, sometimes the waves won, either way it was a blast. Although the Wave Fighters have since gone underground they will rise again to fight the tyrannical ocean waves, make no mistake of that.

I remember going to a beach called “Topsail Island”, located in North Carolina. Among other things, Topsail Island was known for having fossilized shark teeth wash up on the shore. Throughout the week we would occasionally find a small, black fossilized tooth, which was a fun experience but nothing worthy of National Geographic. But on one particular night a violent storm arose, whipping the ocean into a creamy froth and driving the waves into the beach. The result? A massive payload of sharks teeth. The ocean had vomited them everywhere along the beach and some of them were huge, up to several inches in length. The entire morning was spent in a furious shark teeth hunt, and we arrived home from that vacation with a bag full of fossilized teeth. We no longer have the bag full of teeth, but I still have the memory.

Why Memories Matter

Why have I spent so much time meditating on my childhood memories? Why such an emphasis on forming memories as a family? Did all my dad's efforts to make memories have an influence on my relationship with the Lord?

In answer to these questions, let me tell you how our memory making expeditions shaped my relationship with my dad. First, they created a deep friendship between us. I wanted to spend time with Dad because I knew we were going to have fun. I wanted to go fishing with him, to the park with him, and on vacation with him because I knew I was in for the time of my life. A deep friendship was born during those times spent together. This friendship laid the foundation for Dad to teach me about Jesus. I was receptive to Dad's instruction because I was receptive to Dad himself. If Dad hadn't been my friend first, I don't think I would have been as open to his instruction and correction. Friendship was the foundation of instruction.

Second, our memory making let me know that Dad really loved me. Dad spent hours upon countless hours having fun with us. It's difficult to doubt that your father loves you when you have so much fun with him. He wasn't spending time with us out of sense of fatherly duty or a guilty conscience. He spent time with us because he deeply loved us.

I'm twenty-five years old and I still love spending time with my dad. Why? Because my dad loved spending time with me.

Let There Be Memories

Parents, are we making memories with our children on a regular basis? Nowhere in the Bible will you find the command, “Parents shall make memories with their children.” However, in Proverbs 22:6 you will find the command, “Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.” If we are to effectively train our children in the fear of the Lord, we must first have a friendship with them, and friendships are held together by memories.

So parents, let us be memory makers! Let's set aside unhurried time with our children. Let's be silly with them, wrestle with them, tell them stories, tickle them, and laugh with them. Create fun, exciting, and memorable traditions for your family. Make every Saturday “Blueberry Pancake Day”, or make Monday nights “Ice Cream Night”. If possible, plan a yearly vacation. It doesn't have to be elaborate and expensive, just conducive to making memories. For those of you who go on business trips, take your family with you if possible. So many children grow up with horrible childhood memories. As a result they end up estranged from their parents, estranged from their siblings, and in some cases, estranged from the Lord. As parents, let's resolve to form sweet memories with our children.

* * *

Dear Dad,

I've had somewhat of an epiphany: good memories don't just happen, they're carefully planned. For the past three or four Mondays I've had no planned family activities, assuming that fun things would just come our way. Doesn't happen. What does happen is that I usually end up wasting the day on myself. No family memories made, very little quality time spent together. Just a lot of me doing what I want to do. My default mode of operation is selfishness, and unless I'm very careful, family memories will be sacrificed on the altar of self.

So the question is, how do I change? I think there are two answers to this question. First, I need to pray. Apart from the sanctifying power of God, I'll never change. My selfish heart will have its selfish way every time. And so I'll go to Jesus, my great high priest, and appeal for sin-killing power. Second, I'll imitate you, the master memory planner. Dad, you didn't just let memories happen, you made them.

Today is Monday, my day off. How can I imitate you today? By spending fun, unhurried time with my wife and daughter. That's what you did with us. You took us to the park, to coffee shops, to bookstores, and on bike rides. We sat around fires, watched movies, played games, and went fishing. These weren't appointments that you managed to fit into a busy schedule. We were your priority, that was clear. Does my family feel the same way? I hope so.

Thanksgiving is approaching quickly, and we all know what that means: the cowboy breakfast. I find myself in a bit of a dilemma. Do I carry on the tradition of the cowboy breakfast with my own family, or do I come up with a new tradition, such as the “pirate breakfast” or “viking breakfast”? I really like the idea of a pirate breakfast, with everyone around the table saying things like, “Aaargh matey, pass me the eggs or I'll run ye through with me saber, then keel haul yer filthy carcass.” But I confess, it'll be tough to give up the cowboy breakfast. I have such fond memories of waking up on Thanksgiving morning, smelling the frying potatoes, hearing the soft sizzle of frying bacon, and hearing you say things like, “After breakfast we're gonna have to ride up to the North 40 to round up those loose cattle.” In the end it probably doesn't matter whether we do a cowboy breakfast or pirate breakfast. What matters is the memories.

By God's grace I think I did one thing right this year: I took my wife on a vacation. Before Charis was born Jen and I went to the beach for five days of sweet memory making. We read books, took long walks on the beach, ate large quantities of ice cream, and enjoyed each other's company. It was a time to remember. The truth is, Dad, I came to understand the critical role that vacations play in memory making by watching you. I learned that cramming six people into a van for twenty-four hours while driving to Florida can be a wonderful experience. I learned that in Disney World it is possible to ride “Splash Mountain” more than ten times in a single day. I learned the importance and dignity of being a “wave fighter”. Most of all, I learned what it means to make memories.

Dad, the memories we made together mean the world to me. To say that I'm grateful would be a cowboy-sized understatement. By God's grace, I'll make memories with my family as well. Thanks for being the best dad in the world.

Love,

Stephen

P.S. - Someday Charis would like to go to Disney World with her grandpa.

Chapter 9

The Faithful Caretaker

Pregnancy sickness does strange things to a man. Of course it's a bit tough on the wife as well, I'll give you that. But before this year, I never knew how difficult pregnancy sickness could be.

Perhaps I should explain. This past winter my wife Jen and I had the joy, and surprise, of discovering that Jen was pregnant with our first child. Within several days of our startling discovery Jen was besieged by a vicious case of pregnancy sickness.

Pregnancy sickness affects different women in different ways. Some women get nothing more than an upset stomach each morning and perhaps a sour burp every now and then, while other women vomit violently from sunrise to sunset. Jen was on the sicker end of the spectrum. From the moment she stepped out of bed each morning her stomach was a roiling, nauseated mess. Eating anything of substance was out of the question, and lying prostrate on the couch became Jen's position of preference. The slightest odor could trigger a wave of nausea, forcing me to take extra precautions before kissing her, such as brushing my teeth, then rinsing my mouth with Listerine, then chewing on freshly cut sprigs of mint leaf. The severity of the sickness confined her to two primary activities: lying on the couch and watching television. Lots of television. During those long days I became intimately familiar with every show on the The Discovery Channel, The Learning Channel, and the Home and Garden network. Our goal was simply to make it through those first three months with our sanity mostly intact.

Those three months were a frustrating time for both of us. By nature Jen is a very industrious housewife, which made being chained to the couch for three months maddening. Being cooped up was pretty tough for me as well. Our romantic date nights consisted of watching television. I became best friends with the local pharmacist as I purchased a massive quantity of drugs designed to alleviate the many symptoms of pregnancy sickness. I made trips to the grocery store, fought to keep the house in somewhat reasonable order, and spent lots of time just sitting with my wife. It wasn't always easy caring for Jen, and there were times when I felt like I would never see the end. Yet through it all I was sustained by two things. First and foremost, the empowering grace of God. Only the grace of the almighty God could enable me to serve my wife cheerfully during her extended illness. In 2 Corinthians 1:9-10 Paul says:

“Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. He delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will deliver us again.”

I certainly didn't feel as though I had received a sentence of death, but there were times when I felt stretched far beyond my comfort zone. In those times I experienced the empowering, life-changing grace of God.

Second, I was motivated by the memory of my dad caring for my mom during her many bouts with illness.

Long, Dark Days

Illness has been a constant, miserable companion to my mom over the past fifteen years. It comes without warning, bringing Mom's life to a grinding halt, leaving her bedridden for days, or even weeks at a time. Sometimes it responds to medicine other times she simply must endure the agony. My mom is an incredible example of faith during these times. She trusts that God loves her and cares for her, even though she feels sick beyond words. She doesn't complain, doesn't become bitter towards God. She patiently waits for the affliction to pass. Sometimes she waits a few days, other times she waits a few months.

During these seasons of darkness Mom is unable to do much around the house. As much as she would desire to, she just can't. For her, life comes to a painful standstill.

This illness has been tough for my dad as well. When the sickness is present he essentially loses his wife. Date nights are shot. Intimate conversation is difficult. A second parent to help raise the kids is temporarily out of service. To say that it's been hard is a massive understatement.

Yet it's in these times that I've seen God's grace working most powerfully in my dad. Ephesians 5:25 says, “Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her...” During these extended periods of illness I've seen my dad give himself up for my mom, and I've seen what it means for a husband to love his wife as Christ loved the church. My dad has been a faithful husband to my mom, and his faithfulness has had a deep affect on my life.

A Light In the Dark

I saw God's grace at work in my dad in many ways as he cared for my mom. I saw God's grace in the way Dad responded to Mom's illness. There are many waves of temptation that assault a person when a family member is sick for an extended period of time. There's the temptation to complain, the temptation to doubt the goodness of God, and the temptation to grow weary of caring for the sick family member. Illness within the family often functions as a furnace for our hearts, bringing many sinful impurities to the surface. If you talked to my dad he would tell you that he struggled with all these temptations. Yet in spite of this, I saw my dad respond in a God-honoring manner during those dark days.

I saw Dad respond in faith. He was like a tree with roots sunk deep into the soil of God's word. He knew from Romans 8:28 that God had ordained Mom's illness for her good, his good, and the glory of God. He knew from Philippians 4:13 that in Christ there was strength to do all things, including being content under the burden of trials. He knew from 2 Corinthians 4:17 that the afflictions he endured in this life were preparing for him an eternal weight of glory. Dad had spent many hours meditating on the Word of God, sinking his roots deep into God's promises, and when the storms of life arose, he was not easily moved. He didn't sink into deep discouragement or immobilizing panic when Mom became sick. Rather, he responded in faith to the promises of God's word.

I also saw Dad respond with cheerful serving. When Mom was sick she couldn't do much, and it was in those difficult times that I saw what it means to be a godly, servant-hearted, faithful husband. What an example Dad set for our family. He made dinner, scrubbed greasy dishes, washed mountains of laundry, and kept the house in working order. Had Dad not been there, I'm convinced that the house would have been slowly destroyed by his children. Mark 10:43 says, “But whoever would be great among you must be your servant.” In my dad I witnessed true greatness, for I saw a faithful husband who humbly, cheerfully served his family.

A Legacy of Faithfulness

Twenty-seven years ago, my dad made an oath before God that he would stay faithful to my mom through sickness and health, joy and pain, happiness and sorrow. Did he have any idea how much sacrifice would be required to keep that vow? Certainly not. But God has empowered him to be a faithful husband and to leave a lasting, God-honoring legacy for his children.

Many men have deserted their wives for reasons far less significant than constant, heart-wrenching illness. Hollywood tells us that marriage is supposed to be easy, fun, and painless, and that life isn't supposed to be tough. But the truth is, many God-glorifying marriages are forged in the valley of pain, for it's there that God's grace is most clearly displayed.

This was the case for my dad. He wouldn't have chosen the path of suffering, but he wouldn't have traded it either. Why? It forced him to press in close to God and to cry out for sustaining grace. Apart from the sustaining, empowering, strength-giving grace of God, Dad couldn't have stayed faithful to Mom. But through God's grace, Dad didn't just endure suffering, he flourished in it.

Dad's faithfulness to my mom has had a massive impact on my life, especially since I got married. His faithfulness taught me that a man's ministry at home validates his ministry in public. My dad is very publicly gifted. He's a phenomenal songwriter, an excellent preacher, a gifted worship leader, and the pastor of a flourishing church. Churches around the world sing his songs. People look to him for wisdom and respect him as a leader. But none of his gifts would bring glory to God if he wasn't first faithful at home, caring for my mom. Dad's faithfulness to my mom validated all his public ministry.

Dad's servant attitude toward my my mom propelled me to serve my wife in the midst of her illness. During those three long months of pregnancy sickness, the memory of Dad caring for Mom sustained and encouraged me. I wanted to care for Jen the way Dad cared for Mom, by taking care of things around the house, spending time with her, and making a point of encouraging her. Because of Dad's example, I had a clear picture of what it meant to be a godly husband.

Parents, what sort of legacy are we leaving for our children? Husbands, are we leaving a legacy of marital faithfulness through every trial? Are we demonstrating Ephesians 5 for our children by faithfully serving and caring for our wives? When our children are married, will they be able to look to us as shining examples of godly husbands? Let that be our goal!

My dad's faithful care for my mom left an imprint upon my heart that is bearing eternal fruit. He could have left her, as many men do when things get tough in marriage. But he was faithful, even in the face of painful trials, and in doing so brought much glory to God. So husbands, let us make every effort to faithfully serve our wives, through the good times and the bad. And moms, don't underestimate your example either. By faithfully serving and caring for your husband, you too are leaving a lasting legacy for your children.

Back To the Beginning

I began this chapter reminiscing on the difficulties of pregnancy sickness. After the first three months, things got much easier. Jen felt 100% better and was able to be up and about once again. No more lying around for us! That is until about three weeks ago when our first child, Charis Marie, was born via Cesarean section. Which brings us back to where we started, on the couch. Yet I find myself in faith. By the power of God's grace, I'll be fiercely faithful to my wife.

* * *

Dear Dad,

There's a television show on called “Heroes” that tells the story of individuals with supernatural powers who join together to save the world. Some of them can fly, some can travel through time, some are virtually indestructible, all are extraordinary. But I'm not impressed by these so-called “Heroes”, because I lived with a real life hero who had extraordinary powers. I witnessed you faithfully and heroically care for Mom, and I saw the supernatural power of God at work in your life.

Dad, I simply can't tell you how much your faithfulness to Mom through trials has affected me. By watching you care for Mom I learned what it means to be a godly husband, and what it means to stay faithful in sickness and in health.

The way you responded to Mom's sickness had a massive impact on not just me, but the entire family. You didn't allow discouragement or depression to overwhelm you, as many others would have. You didn't complain against God, nor did you give into fear. Instead you responded with God-honoring faith, believing in the goodness of our sovereign God. And the truth is, Dad, we were watching you. We took our cues from how you responded. If you had reacted in fear or anger, we would have done the same. But because of your faith in God and his word, you were a rock for our family, an anchor that held firm in the midst of the storm.

Ever since Jen had the C-Section she's had a terrible headache, which has seriously limited our family activities. The doctors don't seem to have any answers and medicine hasn't helped much either, and at times I've been tempted to be discouraged. But then I remember your faith, and I find my heart strengthened once again.

I also find my heart strengthened when I remember the way you heroically served Mom during those dark days. I know you struggled with selfishness, with wanting time to relax. But by the power of God, you overcame those selfish desires and threw yourself wholeheartedly into serving the family. There was no job too mundane for you. Dishes, laundry, dusting - you did it all. I was watching you then too, and the image of you bent over a sink full of dishes is burned into my mind. Now I'm seeking to care for Jen like you cared for Mom.

Dad, you've got some serious talents. You write songs like nobody's business, your preaching is outstanding, and you have been a faithful pastor for twenty-five years. But that's not what makes you great in my eyes, or God's eyes for that matter. You're great because you're a servant. When you die, I'm not going to remember you for all the great songs you wrote or the convicting sermons that you preached. I'm going to remember the way you served our family, and I'm going to remember your fierce commitment to Mom.

I want to write songs like you, and to preach like you, and to be a faithful pastor. But more than anything else, I want to be a faithful husband and loving father like you. When I stand before God on judgment day, I'm not going to be judged based upon the number of worship songs I wrote or how many sermons I preached. I'm going to give an account for the way I loved my wife and raised my children. That's why I'm doing my best to imitate you.

Dad, a day is coming when you too will stand before the judgment throne to give an account of your life. It's then that I believe you'll hear the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.” I love you, Dad.

Love,

Stephen

P.S. - Your high octane coffee seems to help Jen's headaches. I think we're going to need a little more.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Preface

1 The Converted Sinner

2 The Passionate Follower

3 The Faithful Teacher

4 The Gentle Interrogator

5 The Servant Leader

6 The Humble Father

7 The Generous Giver

8 The Memory Maker

9 The Faithful Caretaker

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Preface

1 The Converted Sinner

2 The Passionate Follower

3 The Faithful Teacher

4 The Gentle Interrogator

5 The Servant Leader

6 The Humble Father

7 The Generous Giver

8 The Memory Maker

9 The Faithful Caretaker