I watched intently as my little brother was caught in the act. He sat
in the corner of the living room, a pen in one hand and my father's
brand-new hymnbook in the other.
As my father walked into the room, my brother cowered slightly; he
sensed that he had done something wrong. From a distance I could see
that he had opened my father's new hymnal and scribbled in it the
length and breadth of the first page with a pen.
Now, staring at my father fearfully, he and I both waited for his
punishment. And as we waited, there was no way we could have known
that our father was about to teach us deep and lasting lessons about
life and family, lessons that continue to become even clearer through
the years.
My father picked up his prized hymnal, looked at it carefully, and
then sat down, without saying a word. Books were precious to him; he
was a clergyman and the holder of several degrees. For him, books
were knowledge, and yet he loved his children.
What he did next was remarkable. Instead of punishing my brother,
instead of scolding or yelling or reprimanding, he sat down, took the
pen from my brother's hand, and then wrote in the book himself,
alongside the scribbles John had made:
John's work, 1959, age 2. How many times have I looked into your
beautiful face and into your warm, alert eyes looking up at me and
thanked God for the one who has now scribbled in my new hymnal. You
have made the book sacred, as have your brothers and sister to so much
of my life.
"Wow," I thought. "This is punishment?"
The years and the books came and went. Our family experienced what
all families go through and perhaps a little bit more: triumph and
tragedy, prosperity and loss, laughter and tears. We gained
grandchildren, we lost a son. We always knew our parents loved us and
that one of the proofs of their love was the hymnal by the piano.
From time to time we would open it, look at the scribbles, read my
father's expression of love, and feel uplifted. Now I know that
through this simple act my father taught us how every event in life
has a positive side - if we are prepared to look at it from another
angle - and how precious it is when our lives are touched by little
hands.
But he also taught us about what really matters in life: people, not
objects; tolerance, not judgment; love, not anger. Now I, too, am a
father, and, like my dad, a clergyman and holder of degrees.
But unlike my father, I do not wait for my daughters to secretly take
books from my bookshelf and scribble in them. From time to time I
take one down - not just a cheap paperback but a book that I know I
will have for many years to come, and I give it to one of my children
to scribble or write their names in.
And as I look at their artwork, I think about my father, the lessons
he taught me, the love he has for us and which I have for my
children - love that is at the very heart of a family. I think about
these things and I smile. Then I whisper, "Thank you, Dad."
~~Author Unknown~~