He must manage his own family well, having children who respect and obey him. For if a man cannot manage his own household, how can he take care of God’s Church?

I Timothy 3:4-5 (NLT)

As the oldest of six kids, I was the first to experience the legacy my Dad began building: raising children who respected him. 

Father’s Day hits differently once your dad is gone, no matter how old you are. Some years, it’s a soft ache. Others, it’s a bit heavier, like this year. It was twenty years ago this month that Jesus called Dad home. If he were alive today, he would be 99 years old. Losing someone you love is always too soon.

Even as a child, I knew my Dad was special. He was a tender shepherd of his family when the roles of fathers and mothers were strictly defined. “Byron is a family man.” That’s how people described him in the 1950s and 1960s. Today, we’d call him a good parent.

That’s why his children respected and (for the most part) obeyed him. Having a father who lived this verse quietly, consistently, and faithfully was a priceless gift. First Timothy 3:4-5 is a picture of godly leadership in the home. He led without demanding that we follow him. His character and faith were reason enough to view him as the head of our home. 

His family came first. He even quit a job once without another one lined up. He had just worked three straight days without seeing his kids. He’d leave before we woke up and get home after we were already in bed. My mother was a bit panicked; after all, they had six kids to feed by then. Dad trusted that God had a better plan and stepped out in faith. He had a new job the next day. 

His everyday faith showed up in how he honored my mom, handled pressure, and made time for what mattered most, especially sharing his musical gifts.

My Dad was a natural, self-taught musician. One year, for Christmas, he recorded himself singing and playing his accordion and piano and gave a cassette tape to his siblings (all nine of them). I was preparing for a clarinet solo at a spring band concert. He was playing the piano as I struggled with higher register notes. The tape of that session reminds me of how he used humor to keep me from being discouraged with every squeak and stumble. 

I could write a book about the man I was privileged to call Dad.

I still hear his Norwegian accent and vibrato in his tenor voice, and I would trade almost anything to hear those sounds again. In the meantime, I take comfort in knowing that someday I will. The best gift he gave me was not having to wonder what would happen to him after he died. And I don’t either. One day, Jesus will call me home, too, and that reunion will be spectacular!

Grace and peace,

Debra