One Fine Dad

I’d like to introduce a man named Harold Wright, an uncomplicated Manitoba farmer born in 1897. At age seventeen, Harold marched off to fight in the war to end all wars. He survived, started a family, and saw his eldest daughter join the Canadian Women’s Army Corps in the war after that. Harold’s greater contribution to World War II, however, was proposing that his family take in three British evacuee children through the CORB (Children’s Overseas Reception Board) program. He had his reasons. So convinced was Harold that this would be a great idea, he signed up his family as hosts without a thorough discussion with his wife. Knowing his wife’s good heart, he felt confident she’d be on board.

Harold was wrong.

Mrs. Wright, while willing to take in a teenage girl as a possible friend for her hurting daughter, was unequivocally opposed to hosting the two younger children who came as part of the package. She had her reasons.

Meanwhile, their teenage daughter was opposed to all three house guests. She had her reasons too.

By the time poor Harold discovered he’d acted too hastily, he had some impossible back-peddling to do. A family of three children had already arrived on his doorstep—siblings aged 14, ten, and seven, determined to stay together come hell or high water.

Hell and high water came when the three kids feared separation and ran away. Harold found himself bumping down dusty country roads in his old Ford truck on a dark, muggy July night while he searched for three English youngsters who knew nothing about life in the Canadian wilds.

One can imagine what went through Harold’s mind. He’d been so well-intentioned. His generous gesture was meant to bring joy and healing to his family while also helping another family, providing their kids with a safe and peaceful childhood. Now he’d failed miserably. What if the children couldn’t be found? He aimed his headlights into the ditches on both sides as he feared the worst. How on earth could he explain matters to CORB? Who would tell the children’s parents back in England?

He finally found the runaways—alive but filthy, hungry, thirsty, smelling like skunks, and covered in mosquito bites and poison ivy. Harold was fit to be tied while anger and relief jockeyed for position at his emotional steering wheel. He had about three seconds to decide how to handle this unprecedented, vexing situation. Whatever happened in the next few minutes—and over the course of the next several years—would demonstrate the sort of man Harold Wright was.

Without giving away more details, I’m glad to report that, over time and with multiple opportunities, Harold proved himself worthy of the title “father.” Though he didn’t always get things right, he’d learned to walk by faith in a God who taught him to lead with love, mercy, and wisdom. A man you’d love to know.

Unfortunately, you can’t meet him in person. Harold Wright is a fictional character in my upcoming novel, “Even If We Cry.” Though he plays a small role in the tale, it’s a surprisingly significant one. I can’t wait to share this story with you. It’ll be out in early December.

Meanwhile, I want to say “thank you” to all you fathers who do your best every day to make life better for your families, your communities, and your country even when your confidence sags and circumstances seem impossible. Trust your Heavenly Father to lead and guide you in patience, wisdom, and grace. He will not steer you wrong.

Happy Father’s Day.

British evacuees during WWII. Photo: https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/education/resources/evacuation-canada/

 

Great Advice, Dad!

I asked a question on Facebook: “What’s the best advice you ever received from your dad?”

My friend Vicki’s dad advised her to go into teaching—for the good pension! She took his advice, taught for over forty years, and continuously advanced her education, improving both her salary and her retirement benefits. She tapped in early to what many of us don’t think about until retirement age is rapidly approaching and we’ve been diddling life away at part-time work or jobs without pension benefits. Now she’s enjoying the freedom and security of that long-ago choice. (That said, if Vicki hadn’t also been cut out to be a wonderful teacher, such advice might have made her life mighty miserable.)

Debbie’s dad taught her to never trust anyone who is mean to an animal. Solid advice. According to the Animal Legal Defense Fund, people who hurt animals often don’t stop with animals. One 2013 study found that 43% of those who commit school massacres also committed acts of cruelty to animals — generally against cats and dogs. If a child behaves cruelly to animals, research shows it may be a sign that serious abuse or neglect has been inflicted on the child. Children who witness animal abuse are at greater risk of becoming abusers themselves. As sad as that is, none of it surprises us. While trusting an animal abuser is not advisable, a much higher road would be to compassionately view that individual as someone in dire need of help.

Susan’s dad taught her that you can never out-give the Lord. I believe this, and because I know her parents and have witnessed their generosity over the years, I know they practice what they preach. Think of all the people we could bless if we truly tried to out-give God!

Charlie, one of my high school classmates, offered this: “‘If you have a small business, if you can keep from borrowing to operate, you will do much better.’ It was good advice and it worked for me!” Charlie is a successful rancher in South Dakota.

My own brother-in-law advised his daughter, Erin, that “Worry works.” His reasoning almost makes sense. He says, “Most of the things I’ve worried about never happened.” So, keep worrying, everyone. And if you can’t think of enough things to worry about, I can probably help you out.

Robin says her dad taught her this valuable bit: “Any job worth doing is worth doing well, whether it’s a high-paying government job or picking up litter along a highway. Do it with the pride that you are a contributing member of society!” I love that, and I hope we can also dignify others who do those undervalued jobs.

I appreciate this one, from Linda. “If you find happiness in receiving, you’ll never be happy because there will always be something else you want. But if you find happiness in giving, you’ll always be happy because there will always be someone with a need.”

A different Linda was told by her father to never let someone else take the blame for her mistakes. That’s golden. It’s hard to imagine anyone else being willing to take the blame for my mistakes, and even harder to think about living with the guilt from such deceitfulness if they did.

I can think of one major exception to this rule. Out of his great love for me, Jesus took the punishment (not the blame—there’s a difference) for my sins and mistakes, and I accept his gift with gratitude. In some cases, I know I must live with the consequences of my actions, but the punishment was His alone to bear.

I suppose that’s something my dad taught me.

Thanks for all the awesome advice, dads. Happy Father’s Day!

Favorite TV Dads, Part 3 of 4: Charles Ingalls

As a little girl, I had a huge crush on Little Joe Cartwright of Bonanza. When I grew older, I was smitten with Charles Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie. Are you sensing a theme here? By the time Highway to Heaven came along, I had my own real-life husband and was too busy chasing three young children to watch television. One summer, however, a friend loaned us a complete set of Little House VHS tapes. The kids and I watched an episode or two every night before bed to unwind after a long hot day of work and play.

Who could wish for a better husband or father than Charles Ingalls? I read the books. It’s not possible that Laura Ingalls Wilder’s real pa was as handsome or as consistently wise and thoughtful as the TV character—in fact, the man’s wanderlust would have driven me crazy. Still, I was not immune to falling in love with the on-screen version, fictional though he was.

The real-life actor, Michael Landon, experienced his share of tragedy in his 54 years with us. His birth name was Eugene Maurice Orowitz. If having a Jewish father and Catholic mother wouldn’t present enough challenges, his mother suffered from mental illness. According to his unofficial biography, Michael Landon: His Triumph and Tragedy, the childhood stress of worrying about his mother and her frequent suicide attempts caused Landon to wet the bed. The stress was compounded by the humiliation of having his mother hang the wet sheets outside his bedroom window in full view of his friends.

His adult life certainly wasn’t without strife, either, despite the colossal success of his show business career. A chain-smoker and heavy drinker, he divorced twice and died much too young of pancreatic cancer in 1991.

The Little House on the Prairie show ran for nine seasons, from 1974 to 1983. Although it had its comedic moments, the show was primarily a drama that succeeded in bringing viewers to tears nearly every episode. Set during the 1870s-90s, it covered many of the same topics the books did, like poverty, blindness, death, and faith—and many that the books did not: adoption, alcoholism, racism, drug addiction, leukemia, child abuse, and rape. Michael Landon not only starred as Pa Ingalls, he wrote, directed, and produced many of the episodes—some of which were remakes of episodes he’d written for Bonanza. In each one, Pa’s character shone. He modeled hard work, humor, contentment, courage, and selfless concern for others. Besides, who can resist a guy who can both play the fiddle and build things out of wood? Or a life where problems are solved within the span of a one-hour episode?

Apart from Michael Landon’s looks and charm, what was it about the character of Charles Ingalls that so appealed to viewers of every age and gender? Could the heartbreaks of Landon’s childhood have helped him tap into something we all long for—a father who is not only humble and down-to-earth but dependable, consistently loving and good-natured, while maintaining integrity and valuing family above all? Whose wife and children can rest secure in his unconditional love? Perhaps deeper still lies the desire to be that sort of person, even though every single one of us falls short. Ironically, at the time of his death, Landon was working on a new series about father/son relationships across three generations. I bet it would have been a hit.

Regardless how much we all long for it, I have a hunch nobody on this planet has ever had or been a dad as perfect as Pa Ingalls. Could it be that the deepest part of our hearts recognizes its need for our heavenly father, our Creator—the only one who can or will deliver?

This Father’s Day, take time to consider your relationship with your earthly father, for better or worse. Then ask God to show you a little of his own character as a loving parent. See what he reveals.

When the Alphabet Starts with "Z"

It’s time for my annual “acrostic” story, but the contest organizers changed the rules this year. Instead of starting with the letter ‘A’ and working through the alphabet, each story had to begin with ‘Z’ and work backwards. They provided the first four required words, and I find it uncanny that, in 2020, that first word was “Zooming.” It was set up long before anyone knew how this year would unfold. I’m proud to announce my entry placed third and pleased to share it here along with my Happy Father’s Day to all.

A Father’s Love

Zooming across the bridge leading from one high rise medical building to another, Kaley Kincaid was glad she’d worn sensible shoes even as she blinked back tears, scanning for signs indicating the clinic pharmacy. Yellow arrows painted on the floor clearly marked the way, but all she could think about was Dr. Chu’s solemn tone when he’d shared the results of three-month-old Tommy’s tests.

“Xeroderma Pigmentosum, or XP, is caused by a genetic mutation,” he’d droned. “While there is no cure, we can treat it and try to minimize the destruction. Vitamin D supplements will be required to replace sun exposure, which Tommy will need to avoid all his life. Ultraviolet rays will cause damage to his skin just like it does to yours and mine. The difference is, while our skin heals through nucleotide excision repair, this damage is not repaired in people with xeroderma pigmentosum. Sunglasses will need to be worn during all daylight hours to protect his eyes from forming cataracts,” he continued. “Retinoid creams may help decrease the risk of skin cancer, but should cancer develop, it will be treated in the same way as it would for anyone else.”

Quartets of doctors, all of them Dr. Chu in his white jacket and stethoscope, began to swirl in front of Kaley’s eyes as she felt herself grow faint and a cold sweat begin to trickle down her back.

“Put your head down between your knees,” the doctor told Kaley with little sympathy as he grabbed his prescription pad and began scratching something on it. “Our pharmacy across the skywalk can supply you with a pair of child-size dark glasses immediately, the kind that tie around the baby’s head. No need to be distraught. Many people with this condition live to an almost normal life expectancy, provided they use extreme caution.”

Life expectancy? Kaley wanted to clamp her hands over her ears, squeeze her eyes shut, and will this awful doctor and his miserable diagnosis away forever. Just when the medical community had finally gotten to the bottom of their baby’s symptoms, just as she and Mark believed hope of a cure was within grasp, just when they were anticipating sharing the good news with everyone, all had come crashing down in two minutes.

“If…if I understand you correctly,” she stammered, “not only will our boy never get to play outdoors but you’re saying his life will be cut short too?”

How could she be having this conversation, and why, oh why, hadn’t she insisted on Mark coming with them to the appointment like he’d offered? Grabbing the handle of Tommy’s baby carrier with one hand and the prescription slip with the other, Kaley stormed out of the doctor’s office and across the glass enclosed bridge to the pharmacy.

Fighting tears while she placed the tiny sunglasses on Tommy’s head, she felt relief at the sound of Mark’s ringtone and the vibration of the phone in her pocket. Even in his shock over her news, Mark managed to speak words that calmed Kaley and filled her with hope—just like he always did.

“Don’t think for one second that we can’t get through this together, Sweetheart, no matter how difficult it becomes. Challenges are part of life just as much as good times, and we signed up to face both—as a team. Best part of it is, now that we have Tommy, we’re a team of three instead of only two.”

A heavy cloak of despair lifted off Kaley’s shoulders and she knew that when she pulled into their driveway, Mark Kincaid—her husband of six months and Tommy’s proud stepfather—would be waiting for them with open arms, eager to form a circle of love and light that no diagnosis, no darkness, no doctors, could ever dissolve.

Ahead By a Century

If my father were still here with us, he would have turned a hundred years old this year. He’s been gone since 1986. Although I’d have loved for him to be around longer, I tend to think he was one of the blessed ones who took only sixty-seven years to complete his assignment on this earth before moving on to a much lovelier life.

When my father was born in 1919, women had been allowed to vote for three years, although they would not be declared “persons” in Canada until Dad was ten.

World War One had ended the previous fall (although it would not be called that until World War II), but the subsequent influenza epidemic still raged on. As a result, the 1919 Stanley Cup series was suspended after five games.

From mid-May until late June, the Winnipeg General Strike became the largest strike in Canadian history. More than 30,000 workers left their jobs. Factories, shops, transit and city services shut down. The strike resulted in arrests, injuries and the deaths of two protestors.

In books, ranking near the top were Willa Cather’s My Antonia, James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and The Good Soldier, by Ford Madox Ford.

Movies hitting the big screen in 1919 included hits called The Miracle Man, Male and Female, and Daddy Longlegs. The big stars of the day were Charlie Chaplin, Lillian Gish, Mary Pickford, and Gloria Swanson. Of course, the movies were silent—forcing the viewer to read intermittent title cards displayed separately from the moving picture to inform dialogue and key plot points. Theaters provided an organ or piano player who accompanied the on-screen story, enhancing its drama or comedy. Of course, I’m sure that by the time Dad got to see a movie, talkies had been invented since they came out in the late twenties.

As a Manitoba farm boy through the twenties and thirties, Dad was not acquainted with the luxuries of indoor plumbing and electricity. While Chrysler and Ford were introducing their latest automobiles to the world, Dad’s family relied on horses and actual horse power. It’s weird to think he grew up that way, but lived to see television, the moon landing, and computers. Dad would be completely blown away if he could see us driving cars that tell us where to go. He’d marvel at how easily we can stay in constant contact with others whether they are across town or on the other side of the world. He wouldn’t believe how simple it is to “ask Alexa” to answer a question or play a specific song.

With all these changes, one of the things remaining the same is the value of a good father—or, in the absence of that, a good father figure. No matter how technologically-advanced this world becomes, every one of us needs and craves the security, love, and validation that only a good father can provide. I feel blessed to have had one of the good ones. I’m pretty sure Dad never attended a parenting seminar or listened to a podcast in his life. He never heard a TED talk or read How to Talk so Kids will Listen and Listen so Kids will Talk.

But I saw my dad embrace my mother. I watched him cry. I tasted his home-cooking. I listened to him sing his made-up songs about me as we drove down the gravel road in his old Fargo pickup. I saw him reading his Bible. Best of all, I heard him pray for me each night when he tucked me into bed. 

You could say Dad was ahead of his time. Maybe even ahead by a century.

Happy Father’s Day!