I stumbled across this today

It’s been almost a year since I wrote this, and I stumbled across it today as I looked for something else. Isn’t that the way it usually works?

On November 9, 2020, I wrote a post called, “The Wheelbarrow,” as part of an unnumbered series I referred to as “Lessons from My Father.” As I was looking for an unrelated document on my work laptop this morning–and still haven’t found–I stumbled across “The Wheelbarrow.” I looked at it, and realized that it needed some fine-tuning and some updating.

I was deeply into the update that occurs at the end, in the “P.S.,” when a colleague stopped by. He’s a fellow Christian, and the moment he asked me if I was ‘okay,’ I wasn’t. I became emotional, couldn’t speak for about 30 seconds, and finally squeaked out what was going on. He came around my desk, reached out, and gave me a squeeze around the shoulders. “I know it’s Covid-time, but sometimes you just need a hug.”

“I don’t care about Covid,” I replied. “Thanks. I needed that.” I told him about the little essay, and then I read it to him. He fully understood why I’d been emotional moments before. If you’ve read this far, then I’ll reward you by posting it here, with fine-tune-ments (not a word) and updates (a word).

Thanks again for reading.

Lessons from My Father: The Wheelbarrow

“When I was a child, I talked like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.”

Dad quoted this verse from First Corinthians 13 to me more than a decade ago when I commented on not minding haying anymore, but these words from verse eleven came back to me this morning as I remembered the wheelbarrow he made.

On my drive to work today, I passed a driveway that had a large handcart at the mouth of it, piled high with bags of trash. The cart had fat, rubber tires, and I imagined it could be pushed as easily over soft ground as on the pavement. Instantly, images of Dad’s wheelbarrow flashed into my head, and shame filled my heart.

“When I was a child…I reasoned like a child.” I recall that I complained excessively as a child, especially about physical labors required of me. They were not harsh measures, just everyday expectations of a growing boy, such as splitting and stacking firewood, mowing the lawn, gathering maple sap, and haying. One result of my plaintive pleas was that Dad made a wheelbarrow to ease the movement of the fruits of my labors. It was truly impressive, and I should have been grateful, but I wasn’t. Instead, I complained even more, because it didn’t have a fat, rubber tire. It had a flat-iron wheel that ran well on hard surfaces but became hopelessly mired on soft ones. Rather than showing gratitude to Dad for his creativity and love, I whined even more that it wasn’t enough. In an instant this morning, all these images and thoughts rushed through me, with shame following like a tidal wave.

In truth, with just a little more effort on my part, that wheelbarrow would have pushed through any mud, or I could have found better paths for it, but in my slothful childishness, it was easier to grumble than to be grateful. Forty years later, I remember with sorrow the sins of my youth. My Father graced me with his gifts, and I responded with ingratitude.

Is that not the way of life? As Dad pointed out, First Corinthians 13 is more famously known for its description of what Love is and is not. Yet, verse 11 is poignant because it challenges us to grow up; not to remain in the “baby Christian” stage of life—always requiring the milk of basic teachings—but to chew on the meat of God’s Word, meditating on it for daily life.

Wrestle with sin! Recognize the Holy Spirit’s power to overcome ingratitude in us and make us thankful people—thankful to God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit for new life in Jesus that reconciles us to God and to one another. First John 1:9 is that wonderful promise: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”

Dad, I’m sorry that I was such a complaining, ungrateful child. Thank you for loving me, anyway. Please forgive me. I love you!

Humbly yours,

Bill

P.S. I told this to Dad a few weeks after writing it. He didn’t recall it, but he did forgive me for my childhood ingratitude. Although I spoke with him on the phone a few times after that, due to the COVID-19 pandemic, it was the last time I saw him in this life. He went to be with the Lord in April 2021. No earthly dad can be perfect, but I’m so thankful for the one I had, Paul S. MacDonald.