HAPPY DADDY'S DAY

My kids never called me "Daddy" much. I was just "Dad." Not Pops, Pa, Father, Old Learned One. But I am a "G-Daddy" to three great grandkids. Now, I don't mean three great grandkids--that would be like the elephant that eats shoots and leaves; I mean I have 3 tremendous grandchildren. Of course, I'm also blessed with two great kids of my own.

My entry today is about my own father. I had an experience in March that really brought Dad to my mind. In Jerusalem we went to the Garden Tomb. A time of reverence, a time of reflection. To sit in the peacefulness of the place.

To take communion there with our pastor. To hear other groups of people singing in other parts of the Garden. To feel the pain of knowing how much Jesus suffered for our sins. To hear a friend on the bus say,"He is NOT there." To know He Is Risen. As our guide said, this might have been the burial place or it might be at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. History isn't important. His Story is.

Whenever I hear the two hymns, "How Great Thou Art" and "The Old Rugged Cross," I think of my dad's funeral in 1976. It's rare that I hear them anymore and almost never in such a short period of time. I heard them in the garden. As we left and on our way to the bus, I noticed a smashed pack of L&M cigarettes in the street. That was my Dad's brand. Since his death almost thirty years ago, I probably haven't seen ten packs crushed or uncrushed. They're rare, I think. But I know it made me think of him. It was almost as if he were saying, "It's all right. Mom and I are in Heaven; we're glad you're here in the Garden."

I'm glad, too, Dad. And I'm glad you were my Dad. Happy Father's Day.