All dads are familiar with "daddy jobs." Daddy jobs are jobs that everyone else in the family gladly relies on dad to do. Dads get to deal with fun stuff like snakes in the house, spiders in the bathtub, and going outside at 2 a.m. to see why the dog is barking.
But there are other "daddy jobs" that a dad is called on to do because he's the only one strong enough to do them. The universal daddy job of all households is opening stuff. Well-taped packages that require a knife or sharp instrument? (Insert "toolman grunt" here). Daddy job. Sticky doors and drawers that swell and won't open easily? Daddy job.
The most common of all is the stuck jar lid. It can be a jelly jar, hot sauce jar, mayonnaise jar, or a jar of any kind with food products inside --- Daddy job.
"Dad, can you open this?" I've yet to figure out if that is a request, a command, or a challenge to my manhood. I always assume the latter and spring to the challenge. Thankfully, there haven't been too many that caused my face to turn red or my veins to thicken on my forehead. Most of them are opened rather easily. But every once in a while, a challenger comes along that is a worthy adversary.
"Dad, can you open this," asks your six-year-old daughter as she hands you a jar of preserves that has been passed down from grandma and has been sitting in an outside pantry rusting away since Truman was president. Without hesitation, you find yourself in a death-grip with that jar twisting with all your might. That old rusty jar takes you to your knees while your daughter looks at you in disappointment. You feel like Superman trying to open a jar of kryptonite and Lois Lane is shocked to see that you can't even open a jar!
After two or three innings, the old jar lid loosens and loses the battle against the man of the house. And yes, the man of the house takes a victory lap around the kitchen.
In the pantry of your life, there may be some things that need opening that fall into the category of "Daddy jobs." Not your earthly daddy. Your heavenly Father. There are some things that only the Father can open. Whether in your life or in the life of someone close to you, you can approach your Father and ask, "Daddy, can You open this?"
He can. God can open closed minds, barricaded hearts, and doors that we thought were permanently shut. Do you have a loved one whose heart and mind is closed toward God? Ask your heavenly Daddy to open it. Do you have a friend or someone you love deeply who has closed the door of their heart to you? Hand it over to your Father. Do you find it difficult to understand what the Bible is saying when you sit down to read it? Ask God to open your understanding. Luke 24:45 says, "And He (Jesus) opened their understanding, that they might comprehend the Scriptures."
Whatever the jar and however tight the lid, take it to Daddy. If He can open the closed tomb of His lifeless Son and bring Him back to life, He can open anything.
Perry Crisp
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Dashing Dad
My first "hawg" looked more like a baby pig. It was a mini-bike and I was the only mini-bike kid in my neighborhood. If you're not sure what a mini-bike is, just think of it as the Mini-Me of Motorcycles. It's a Sit 'n Spin with an engine and wheels.
My mini-bike was an eclectic gathering of various parts from deceased mini-bikes in my neighborhood. There were two parts missing on my mini-bike: a kill switch and a throttle cable.
The kill switch wasn't a problem since there was a piece of metal hovering over the spark plug wire. You simply pushed down on the piece of metal and it killed the engine.
The missing throttle cable made riding the mini-bike an adventure because it gave you only one free hand for steering. Your other hand was busy holding the throttle wide open with your fingers on the swivel cable stop (which was located on the side of the engine). This was a great hand warmer for your left hand since the cable stop was close to the muffler.
A few of my friends had bigger bikes. Dirt bikes. "Real" motorcycles bought in "real" stores. Their bikes were three and four times the size of my mini-bike. Their bikes had "real" kickstands. My kickstand was a parking curb. I would pick up my mini-bike and balance it on the parking curb. It was so short, the frame sat on the concrete and the wheels didn't touch the pavement.
We rode our bikes in the church parking lot because the asphalt drive made a circular track around the buildings. I'm sure it was quite a sight to see five motorcycles speed around the church followed by a putt-putting mini-bike. Those guys could make three laps to my one. Imagine seeing five people riding thoroughbred horses through a pasture followed by a guy on a miniature pony. That's about what it looked like.
It worked out great for me, though. For some reason, there was always a biker buddy who wanted to trade rides. So I spent most of the time on a "real" dirt bike while a friend slummed on my motorized Sit 'n Spin.
One mini-bike memory stands out high above the rest. I was riding Bruce's dirt bike and he was riding my mini-bike. Bruce was the cool kid. He had the longest hair and the newest and biggest dirt bike. I came up behind him at one end of the parking lot, ready to zip by him. He was hunched over with one hand on the handlebar of my mini-bike and one under the seat holding that tecumseh engine's cable stop wide open.
I zoomed past him and glanced back at him. He was all smiles. Seconds after I had turned my head away from Bruce to see where I was going, I heard a loud boom and a louder scream behind me. I jerked my head back around just in time to see Bruce let go of the mini-bike and jump off. The engine was covered in flames.
Bruce was holding his left hand and blowing on it. The flaming mini-bike kept it's balance and continued rolling through the parking lot. I spun back around to check on Bruce.
My dad was at our house working in the garage and heard the boom. The house was 200 yards away. By the time my buddies and I got to Bruce, Dad was already running toward us. Bruce wasn't hurt. A minor burn on his hand. With his good hand, he pointed at my sprinting father.
I remember how stunned we all were at that moment. Dad was the preacher. Preacher's don't run. Dude, was my dad running! We were amazed by three things: 1) How far a flaming, riderless mini-bike can roll, 2) how fast the old guy could run, and 3) how perfect Dad's hair looked at 100 miles per hour. It didn't move. It was like watching Flash Gordon without his costume.
The mini-bike was doing the wiggle motion as it started losing momentum. It passed the asphalt and bounced through the open field between the church and our house.
Dad ran straight to the church, stepped inside, grabbed a fire extinguisher, ran back to the flaming mini-bike that had finally fallen over, and put the fire out before it could spread across the field.
To this day, I don't know how Dad covered that much ground that quickly. If I were to call my buddies to the witness stand, they would corroborate my testimony.
Every time I think of how quickly God comes to the emergency needs of His children, I visualize that mini-bike moment. I love my earthly father and I'm so grateful to have had a Dad who cared for me and provided safety and security for me. I'm thankful for all of life's emergencies that he has rushed toward, ready and eager to help his children and grandchildren.
I'm also gratefully, sometimes to the point of tears, for the times my heavenly Father has been on the scene so instantly in my life. Whether in times of loneliness, injury, crisis, confusion, or depression, our Father is a good Father. He rushes toward us and never leaves us.
"Turn your ear to me, come quickly to my rescue" (Psalm 31:2, NIV).
Slightly used mini-bike for sale...charcoal color.
Perry Crisp
My mini-bike was an eclectic gathering of various parts from deceased mini-bikes in my neighborhood. There were two parts missing on my mini-bike: a kill switch and a throttle cable.
The kill switch wasn't a problem since there was a piece of metal hovering over the spark plug wire. You simply pushed down on the piece of metal and it killed the engine.
The missing throttle cable made riding the mini-bike an adventure because it gave you only one free hand for steering. Your other hand was busy holding the throttle wide open with your fingers on the swivel cable stop (which was located on the side of the engine). This was a great hand warmer for your left hand since the cable stop was close to the muffler.
A few of my friends had bigger bikes. Dirt bikes. "Real" motorcycles bought in "real" stores. Their bikes were three and four times the size of my mini-bike. Their bikes had "real" kickstands. My kickstand was a parking curb. I would pick up my mini-bike and balance it on the parking curb. It was so short, the frame sat on the concrete and the wheels didn't touch the pavement.
We rode our bikes in the church parking lot because the asphalt drive made a circular track around the buildings. I'm sure it was quite a sight to see five motorcycles speed around the church followed by a putt-putting mini-bike. Those guys could make three laps to my one. Imagine seeing five people riding thoroughbred horses through a pasture followed by a guy on a miniature pony. That's about what it looked like.
It worked out great for me, though. For some reason, there was always a biker buddy who wanted to trade rides. So I spent most of the time on a "real" dirt bike while a friend slummed on my motorized Sit 'n Spin.
One mini-bike memory stands out high above the rest. I was riding Bruce's dirt bike and he was riding my mini-bike. Bruce was the cool kid. He had the longest hair and the newest and biggest dirt bike. I came up behind him at one end of the parking lot, ready to zip by him. He was hunched over with one hand on the handlebar of my mini-bike and one under the seat holding that tecumseh engine's cable stop wide open.
I zoomed past him and glanced back at him. He was all smiles. Seconds after I had turned my head away from Bruce to see where I was going, I heard a loud boom and a louder scream behind me. I jerked my head back around just in time to see Bruce let go of the mini-bike and jump off. The engine was covered in flames.
Bruce was holding his left hand and blowing on it. The flaming mini-bike kept it's balance and continued rolling through the parking lot. I spun back around to check on Bruce.
My dad was at our house working in the garage and heard the boom. The house was 200 yards away. By the time my buddies and I got to Bruce, Dad was already running toward us. Bruce wasn't hurt. A minor burn on his hand. With his good hand, he pointed at my sprinting father.
I remember how stunned we all were at that moment. Dad was the preacher. Preacher's don't run. Dude, was my dad running! We were amazed by three things: 1) How far a flaming, riderless mini-bike can roll, 2) how fast the old guy could run, and 3) how perfect Dad's hair looked at 100 miles per hour. It didn't move. It was like watching Flash Gordon without his costume.
The mini-bike was doing the wiggle motion as it started losing momentum. It passed the asphalt and bounced through the open field between the church and our house.
Dad ran straight to the church, stepped inside, grabbed a fire extinguisher, ran back to the flaming mini-bike that had finally fallen over, and put the fire out before it could spread across the field.
To this day, I don't know how Dad covered that much ground that quickly. If I were to call my buddies to the witness stand, they would corroborate my testimony.
Every time I think of how quickly God comes to the emergency needs of His children, I visualize that mini-bike moment. I love my earthly father and I'm so grateful to have had a Dad who cared for me and provided safety and security for me. I'm thankful for all of life's emergencies that he has rushed toward, ready and eager to help his children and grandchildren.
I'm also gratefully, sometimes to the point of tears, for the times my heavenly Father has been on the scene so instantly in my life. Whether in times of loneliness, injury, crisis, confusion, or depression, our Father is a good Father. He rushes toward us and never leaves us.
"Turn your ear to me, come quickly to my rescue" (Psalm 31:2, NIV).
Slightly used mini-bike for sale...charcoal color.
Perry Crisp
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Getting to the "Bottom" of Discipline
Dad, I hope you read this. This is one of your favorite stories to tell whenever I ask you to preach in my absence. And, by the way, Dad - thanks for everything. You're the greatest dad, pastor, husband, and man I've ever known. I love you.
Whenever someone tells me that I look just like you, Dad, I bark back an answer that sounds just like you. I always say, "I keeping hoping I'll grow out of it." Thanks for giving me a sense of humor. But in all honesty, I hope I do look like you. Not just in physical appearance. But in my whole person. On with the story!
There are several things my readers should know to understand the whole story. This is the part Dad always leaves out when telling it. I must plead my case, you understand.
First, I was ADD before ADD was invented. It certainly wasn't excusable. Back in those days, your parents just grabbed an ear and twisted, or slapped the backside of your head. If that didn't work, they applied a few solid reminders to your backside. Second, church pews didn't have cushions in those days. It was bone on wood for a solid hour. And finally, it was Andy's fault. He was my best friend. He folded a bulletin into a paper football and thumped it at me first!
But I was the one who got caught. Dad was behind the pulpit preaching his heart out to the good folks of First Baptist, Bevil Oaks, Texas. Andy and I were playing paper football. I scored. As everyone knows, when you score a touchdown in paper football, you get to kick an extra point.
Andy made a goal post with his fingers and thumbs on the sitting part of the pew. I held the pointy end of the paper football up with my left index finger and thumped the ball with my right one. It not only cleared Andy's finger-goal-post, it cleared the top of the pew, too. Dad saw it.
He stopped preaching. I stopped breathing. I didn't want to look toward the eyes of wrath, but I did. Yep. They were looking at me. Through me. They were reading my future. I heard more from Dad's eyes that morning than from his sermon. Those eyes said, "Son, you're getting a whoopin' when you get home."
For the rest of the service, I tried everything short of walking the aisle and getting saved to make up for my transgression. But I knew that extra point was going to cost me dearly.
I ran home after church and looked for a hiding place. The toy box was too full. The shelf in the closet was too high. Under the bed was too obvious. But I ran out of time and ducked under the bed when I heard Dad enter the house.
He didn't even look for me. He spoke with voice and belt simultaneously. I heard, "Perry, come to my room NOW!" The leather belt slapped loudly against each belt loop as he ripped it out. It was like the low-humming music in a horror movie.
I crawled out from under the bed, walked toward my dad's room with my head hung low, completely surrendered. Dad was sitting on his bed with belt in hand. He said, "Now, son, this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you."
With one last desperate plea, I cried, "Couldn't I just cry and save us both a lot of pain?"
I missed the point. The point of discipline is not pain or tears. It is correction. I confused the reason for discipline with the results of discipline. Obviously, this wasn't my first rodeo. I'd grabbed my ankles a few times before. Okay, so it was more than a few.
Dad didn't want to make me cry. He loved me and wanted me to respect him. More importantly, he wanted me to respect God. I thought crying was the purpose of this exercise. Just like we often think the trials and disciplining we go through in life is meant to torture us and make us feel bad.
I knew my Dad better than that. I should have known that what he was doing was for my own good. We ought to know God better than that, too. God isn't mean or evil. God is good. God wants only the best for His children. So He disciplines us when we choose that which leads us astray or could harm us.
God sees the snake in the tree coiled behind the apple we reach for.
"My son, do not despise the Lord's discipline and do not resent his rebuke, because the Lord disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in" (Proverbs 3:11-12, NIV).
Thinking I should've bought Dad some suspenders for Father's Day after this incident...
I love you, Dad,
Perry Crisp
Whenever someone tells me that I look just like you, Dad, I bark back an answer that sounds just like you. I always say, "I keeping hoping I'll grow out of it." Thanks for giving me a sense of humor. But in all honesty, I hope I do look like you. Not just in physical appearance. But in my whole person. On with the story!
There are several things my readers should know to understand the whole story. This is the part Dad always leaves out when telling it. I must plead my case, you understand.
First, I was ADD before ADD was invented. It certainly wasn't excusable. Back in those days, your parents just grabbed an ear and twisted, or slapped the backside of your head. If that didn't work, they applied a few solid reminders to your backside. Second, church pews didn't have cushions in those days. It was bone on wood for a solid hour. And finally, it was Andy's fault. He was my best friend. He folded a bulletin into a paper football and thumped it at me first!
But I was the one who got caught. Dad was behind the pulpit preaching his heart out to the good folks of First Baptist, Bevil Oaks, Texas. Andy and I were playing paper football. I scored. As everyone knows, when you score a touchdown in paper football, you get to kick an extra point.
Andy made a goal post with his fingers and thumbs on the sitting part of the pew. I held the pointy end of the paper football up with my left index finger and thumped the ball with my right one. It not only cleared Andy's finger-goal-post, it cleared the top of the pew, too. Dad saw it.
He stopped preaching. I stopped breathing. I didn't want to look toward the eyes of wrath, but I did. Yep. They were looking at me. Through me. They were reading my future. I heard more from Dad's eyes that morning than from his sermon. Those eyes said, "Son, you're getting a whoopin' when you get home."
For the rest of the service, I tried everything short of walking the aisle and getting saved to make up for my transgression. But I knew that extra point was going to cost me dearly.
I ran home after church and looked for a hiding place. The toy box was too full. The shelf in the closet was too high. Under the bed was too obvious. But I ran out of time and ducked under the bed when I heard Dad enter the house.
He didn't even look for me. He spoke with voice and belt simultaneously. I heard, "Perry, come to my room NOW!" The leather belt slapped loudly against each belt loop as he ripped it out. It was like the low-humming music in a horror movie.
I crawled out from under the bed, walked toward my dad's room with my head hung low, completely surrendered. Dad was sitting on his bed with belt in hand. He said, "Now, son, this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you."
With one last desperate plea, I cried, "Couldn't I just cry and save us both a lot of pain?"
I missed the point. The point of discipline is not pain or tears. It is correction. I confused the reason for discipline with the results of discipline. Obviously, this wasn't my first rodeo. I'd grabbed my ankles a few times before. Okay, so it was more than a few.
Dad didn't want to make me cry. He loved me and wanted me to respect him. More importantly, he wanted me to respect God. I thought crying was the purpose of this exercise. Just like we often think the trials and disciplining we go through in life is meant to torture us and make us feel bad.
I knew my Dad better than that. I should have known that what he was doing was for my own good. We ought to know God better than that, too. God isn't mean or evil. God is good. God wants only the best for His children. So He disciplines us when we choose that which leads us astray or could harm us.
God sees the snake in the tree coiled behind the apple we reach for.
"My son, do not despise the Lord's discipline and do not resent his rebuke, because the Lord disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in" (Proverbs 3:11-12, NIV).
Thinking I should've bought Dad some suspenders for Father's Day after this incident...
I love you, Dad,
Perry Crisp
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