Just Like Dad
I woke up early on Friday to take my car to the dealer and have a couple of recalls fixed. On the way back, I had two choices. I could take Highway No.1 back to Youngsville, or I could wind my way home to Louisburg on old Highway 39. I decided on 39. The sun was bright and shone on an old graveyard, grass freshly mown and oddly beautiful. I passed houses with white sheets fluttering on the clothesline. I drove slowly listening to my favorite newgrass bands: The Vespers, The Wailin' Jennys, and Sarah Jarosz. I admired the lush tobacco with its pale pink blooms, waiting to be topped. It was one of those moments of joy, contentment, and awareness. I was right where I wanted to be.
Somewhere along the way I realized something funny. I was, without realizing it, smack in the middle of one of my dad's car rides. When we were little, he'd round us all up on sweltering summer days and announce, "Come on kids, we're goin' for a car ride!" I hated it then. The last thing I wanted was to be squashed up against my siblings who were already annoying as mosquitoes at a hundred yards; being crammed next to them felt nearly unbearable. The hot vinyl backseat burned the back of my thighs just below the cuff of my shorts. Plus, it never felt like there was a point to the whole exercise. We'd meander along on back roads with the windows down while dad pointed things out -- old trees, old barns, and cows in a pasture. He would take us out to a farm with emus awkwardly roaming around behind some barbed wire. Once he even took us to Hackleburg to see a huge wooden train trestle; it's been torn down since then.
It took growing up for me to realize that taking a car ride without a point was the point. My dad was trying with his limited resources to show us the wonders of our world. He couldn't take us to Florida or Paris, so he did the next best thing. He was making us spend time together and showing us how to genuinely see where we lived instead of just looking past it because it was familiar.
So on Friday as I moseyed along down the road full of joy and wonder at the ordinary Americana I passed on that old highway, I felt grateful to my dad for the legacy of all those car rides from my childhood. It made me feel like a part of him lives inside me and always will. Isn't that how we know we're someone's child after all? We look like our dads and act like our moms. It feels good to be my father's daughter to share love for car rides, storytelling, barbecue, and singing -- to know that is who I am.
I've been studying about holiness this past week. I've written about it before, and I've wrestled a bit with what being holy looks like. Maybe this week I've finally gotten to the heart of holiness. Perhaps it's as simple as just being God's child, that people know you belong to him because you're his child and it shows. I'm more convicted than ever that faith is a relationship, not a set of rules or traditions. So if God is our father, he gives us a part of himself just like our earthly fathers do. That, I believe, is holiness. In I Peter he says, "Be holy for I am holy." Isn't that saying, "Hey, be like me because you're my kid."
Somewhere along the way I realized something funny. I was, without realizing it, smack in the middle of one of my dad's car rides. When we were little, he'd round us all up on sweltering summer days and announce, "Come on kids, we're goin' for a car ride!" I hated it then. The last thing I wanted was to be squashed up against my siblings who were already annoying as mosquitoes at a hundred yards; being crammed next to them felt nearly unbearable. The hot vinyl backseat burned the back of my thighs just below the cuff of my shorts. Plus, it never felt like there was a point to the whole exercise. We'd meander along on back roads with the windows down while dad pointed things out -- old trees, old barns, and cows in a pasture. He would take us out to a farm with emus awkwardly roaming around behind some barbed wire. Once he even took us to Hackleburg to see a huge wooden train trestle; it's been torn down since then.
It took growing up for me to realize that taking a car ride without a point was the point. My dad was trying with his limited resources to show us the wonders of our world. He couldn't take us to Florida or Paris, so he did the next best thing. He was making us spend time together and showing us how to genuinely see where we lived instead of just looking past it because it was familiar.
So on Friday as I moseyed along down the road full of joy and wonder at the ordinary Americana I passed on that old highway, I felt grateful to my dad for the legacy of all those car rides from my childhood. It made me feel like a part of him lives inside me and always will. Isn't that how we know we're someone's child after all? We look like our dads and act like our moms. It feels good to be my father's daughter to share love for car rides, storytelling, barbecue, and singing -- to know that is who I am.
I've been studying about holiness this past week. I've written about it before, and I've wrestled a bit with what being holy looks like. Maybe this week I've finally gotten to the heart of holiness. Perhaps it's as simple as just being God's child, that people know you belong to him because you're his child and it shows. I'm more convicted than ever that faith is a relationship, not a set of rules or traditions. So if God is our father, he gives us a part of himself just like our earthly fathers do. That, I believe, is holiness. In I Peter he says, "Be holy for I am holy." Isn't that saying, "Hey, be like me because you're my kid."
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