When I was young, I looked forward to seeing my father. I usually only saw him on two holidays and for three weeks in the summer. Much of the time we had together was fun. Dad was a boat builder by hobby, so we spent most of our time on the river. You might say Dad was a river rat to the extreme. Our baths
during vacation were just swimming in the Illinois River or in some muddy creek. Mom would cringe upon our return, for my sister and I would inevitably lose our brushes and she would have to untangle several days of unkept strands. Dad claimed we looked cute when we went around like little urchins.
My father delightfully pulled many a joke on his young, gullible children. I remember staring at the stars, wondering which one was ‘home’ when Dad told me my mother was an earthling but he was an alien. My brother fell for it hook line and sinker when the clouds slightly distorted the appearance of the moon
Dad convinced him that our government had set off a charge on the moon and accidently changed its shape. When Dad was in the dinghy teaching my little sister to row, he let her think she was doing fine. He kept a perfectly straight face as she rowed right into a buoy.
Children tend to believe whatever a parent might tell them. We fell for Dad’s pranks, but unfortunately, we also fell for his lies. In the deep matters of life, I never knew my father to be anything but a bitter man. He frequently professed his hatred of God, the God who he also claimed did not exist. When we were very young, Dad sang ‘Jesus Hates You, This I Know’ to the three of us. I won’t go into all that he said gave validation to his claims that God hated us. If Dad had not used those reasons, he would have found some others. Bitter people do. It took many years for the three of us to know that Dad was wrong…that Jesus really did love us. It took many years, but God healed us of the harm that my father had unwittingly done.
My father’s bitterness festered until the end of his life. The day before he died, I shared the gospel with him again. His response was “I want nothing to do with your God. I’m going to pray to the sun god to strike me dead.” The next morning, I arrived at the hospital as the doctor was racing out of Dad’s room. The doctor hurriedly explained that he was going to grab a stethoscope. He wanted to make sure whether or not my dad was already dead. I went in and saw my father laying there with the most terrified look on his face. I wasn’t totally convinced that he was completely gone yet. “Dad,” I pleaded, “if there is any life left in you, it’s not too late! If you tell God in your heart that you are sorry and ask Him to forgive you, He
will! You know that Jesus died on the cross and paid for your sins. If there is life in you still, give your heart to Him!” When I lifted my head from sobbing, I noticed that the terrified look was no longer on my father’s face. He had a look of peace. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for him. Oh, I hope it wasn’t too late!
Friend, if you are reading this, it isn’t too late for you. Why wait for even one more moment? How does bitterness or even casually just waiting for another day that might not come possibly benefit you? Jesus would not have gone through so much trouble for you if He didn’t really love you! It’s not too late YET.