A Godly Father

Recently I filled out a survey for a research project a friend was conducting. One of the survey questions asked, "What person has had the most impact on your life?" I immediately answered, "My dad."

Paul Faust was born and raised on a farm in southern Ohio, the place he called home for more than eight decades. He supported our family by milking cows, raising corn, and selling hogs. In his retirement years he planted a garden big enough, as he said, "to feed an army." When he mowed the lawn, he went the extra quarter-mile and mowed along the side of the road so the whole area would look neat and trimmed.

Despite his unflinching work ethic, Dad knew how to have fun. He didn't mind when my brothers and I turned our lawn into a softball field with bare spots for bases. One summer he rigged up outdoor lights so we could play horseshoes in the yard long after sundown.

Dad never flaunted his faith, but he loved the Lord and read his Bible all the way through several times. He attended church every week, and since he believed in observing a true Sabbath, he would only do essential work on Sundays. (He would milk the cows, but he refused to plant corn or mow the grass on the Lord's Day.)

He was always one of the last people to leave the church building—a habit I found annoying as a boy. He would give me the car keys so I could sit and listen to the radio while I waited impatiently for our family to go home. In retrospect, I realize Dad stuck around because he invested himself deeply in the lives of those who attended our country church.

Dad never went to college, but he made sure all three of his sons did. Despite his lack of formal education, he demonstrated wisdom in the ways that matter most. Filled with godly common sense, he's always been the kind of person others seek out for advice. For years his name and phone number were the ones I wrote down whenever I filled out a form that asked for emergency contact information. Whatever the problem, he was the one you'd want to call.

Yet Dad could be stubborn about his opinions, and found it hard to express emotion. Like many men of his generation, he felt uncomfortable saying "I love you." For years, when one of his grandchildren said, "I love you, Grandpa," he would respond with the same endearing but awkward phrase: "Same to ya!"

Dad showed his love through actions rather than words. He arranged his work schedule so he could attend my basketball games and school plays when I was a boy. As an adult, he helped me build a workbench in my garage. During family visits, he would get up early in the morning to fry bacon and talk with his grandchildren over the breakfast table. And one of the greatest love-lessons I've ever seen has been the faithful affection he's shown my mother throughout their 63 years of marriage.

Dad's strong body has weakened with the years. Now he can no longer drive or walk, and he struggles even to feed himself. Ironically, as his physical health declines he has become more comfortable verbalizing his feelings. I estimate that he has said "I love you" more in the last couple of years than in all the rest of his 86 years combined. When I am privileged to serve him communion while he lies there in bed, the tenderness in his eyes—the look of fatherly pride—says it all.

I thank the Lord for giving me a godly father. And I'm thankful that before it was too late my dad has spoken those words he always found so hard to say: "I love you."

Same to ya, Dad. Same to ya.