Happy Father's Day Dad! You've been gone from this earth almost 12 years. I hope you know what a great Dad you were. This is one of my favorite memories about you:
I was in prison and you came to visit me.' Matthew 25:36 NIV
When I was in my mid-teens, there was a particular experience that made a
permanent impression on my heart. On occasion, something will remind me
of what happened many years ago.
My Dad bought an insurance policy from a salesman I’ll call George. As
it turned out, George was a successful salesman who had written many
insurance policies. However, the policies were worthless. The premium
payments were put into the pockets of George instead of the pockets of
the insurance company. George was caught, arrested, tried, and convicted
of insurance fraud. I never knew how much money Dad lost, but in the
scheme of things, it really wasn’t very important.
My Dad was involved in a local prison ministry, taking his turn leading
services for the men who attended. I don’t know how it happened, but I
imagine that one day when Dad stood to speak, he noticed a specific
inmate sitting among the others. It was George. And no, I don’t believe
it was just a coincidence.
Some inmates were allowed passes, so Dad brought George to our home for
Sunday dinners. I don’t know how often George ate with us. After a
couple of visits, I didn’t think of him as a prisoner. He was a man who
had wronged others. He was a man who enjoyed Sunday dinner with us. He
was a man separated from his family. (Although his wife and daughter
were local, no contact was permitted while George was with Dad.)
This is my favorite part of the story. George finished serving his
sentence and was released from prison. While he was cleaning out his
house preparing to move, he came across some papers. These weren’t just
any papers. These were records of some of the people he had defrauded.
And whose name do you think he saw? Yes, it was Dad’s. Right about then,
I would think he had a sinking feeling in his gut. More than likely, he
was embarrassed, mortified, and ashamed. George probably had an
extremely hard time facing Dad again. He must have had many questions,
such as “why didn’t you tell me who you were?”, and “why did you let me
have meals with your family?”, and “after what I did to you, how could
you treat me with such kindness?, and “why?”, and “why?”.
Dad lived his faith in front of others.
What about me? Is there anything that my son remembers about me? Is
there some word or some action or some feeling or some example or some
attitude or some something?
I sure hope so.
