Appreciating His Work

“He who mistreats his father and chases away his mother is a son who causes shame and reproach” (Proverbs 19:26).

“The father of the righteous will greatly rejoice, and he who begets a wise child will delight him. Let your father and mother be glad, and let her who bore you rejoice” (Proverbs 23:24-25).

“Honor your father and your mother” (Deuteronomy 5:16 cf. Mark 7:10; 10:19; Ephesians 6:1-2).

“My son hear the instruction of your father, and do not forsake the law of your mother” (Proverbs 1:8 cf. 4:1-5; 6:20-23; 13:1; 15:5; 23:22).

It is easy to under-appreciate the advice and work of a father. Mark Twain famously said “When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But, when I got to be 21, I was astonished how much the old man had learned in seven years.” Another has put it this way – “4 years: my dad can do anything. 7 years: My dad knows a lot, a whole lot. Age 8: My father doesn’t know everything. Age 12: Oh well, naturally father doesn’t know that, either. Age 14: Father? Hopelessly old-fashioned. Age 21: Oh, that man is out of date. What did you expect? Age 25: He knows a little bit about it, but not much. Age 30: Maybe we ought to find out what dad thinks. Age 35 A little patience. Let’s get dad’s assessment before we do anything. Age 50: I wonder what dad would have thought about that. He was pretty smart. Age 60: My dad knew absolutely everything. Age 65: I’d give anything if dad were here so I could talk this over with him. I really miss that man.”

Appreciate your father. Consider in view of Father’s Day, the following two poems:

Only A Dad                                                                                                                                            By Edgar Guest

Only dad with a tired face,                                                                                                        Coming home from the daily race,                                                                                        Bringing little of gold or fame                                                                                                            To show how well he has played the game;                                                                                   But glad in his heart that his own rejoice                                                                                        To see him come and to hear his voice.

Only a dad with a brood of four,                                                                                                      One of ten million men or more                                                                                             Plodding along in the daily strife,                                                                                               Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,                                                                                     With never a whimper of pain or hate,                                                                                            For the sake of those who at home await.

Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,                                                                                           Merely one of the surging crowd,                                                                                               Toiling, striving from day-to-day,                                                                                              Facing whatever may come his way,                                                                                          Silent whenever the harsh condemn,                                                                                            And bearing it all for the love of them.

Only a dad but he gives his all,                                                                                                          To smooth the way for his children small,                                                                                 Doing with courage stern and grim                                                                                                 The deeds that his father did for him.                                                                                           This is the life that for him I pen:                                                                                                 Only a dad, but the best of men.

Father                                                                                                                                                      By Edgar Guest

Used to wonder just why father                                                                                                  Never had much time to play,                                                                                                          Used to wonder why he’d rather                                                                                                         Work each minute of the day.                                                                                                        Used to wonder why he never                                                                                                          Loafed along the road an’ shirked;                                                                                                    Can’t recall a time whenever                                                                                                               Father played while others worked.

Father didn’t dress in fashion,                                                                                                         Sort of hated clothing new;                                                                                                             Style with him was not a passion;                                                                                                    He had other things in view.                                                                                                             Boys are blind to much that’s going                                                                                                 On about ‘em day by day,                                                                                                                      And I had no way of knowing                                                                                                        What became of father’s pay.

All I knew was when I needed                                                                                                       Shoes I got ‘em on the spot;                                                                                                        Everything for which I pleaded,                                                                                          Somehow, father always got.                                                                                                         Wondered, season after season,                                                                                                    Why he never took a rest,                                                                                                                And that I might be the reason                                                                                                      Then I never even guessed.

Father set a store on knowledge;                                                                                                        If he’d lived to have his way                                                                                                               He’d have sent me off to college                                                                                                     And the bills been glad to pay.                                                                                                       That, I know, was his ambition:                                                                                                     Now and then he used to say                                                                                                          He’d have done his earthly mission                                                                                                  On my graduation day.

Saw his cheeks were getting paler,                                                                                              Didn’t understand just why;                                                                                                                Saw his body growing frailer,                                                                                                             Then at last I saw him die.                                                                                                                 Rest had come! His tasks were ended                                                                                         Calm was written on his brow;                                                                                                Father’s life was big and splendid,                                                                                                 And I understand it now.

About Bryan Hodge

I am a minister and missionary to numerous countries around the world.
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