Long ago when I was just three years old, I was in love with my daddy. I absolutely adored him. In fact, I thought I would grow up some day and marry him (like my Mommy.)
Daddy was the proverbial tall, dark, and handsome man. With a pompadour of chestnut brown hair, he had emerald eyes that sparkled with mischief. Yet, at the same time they glowed with compassion and concern for his fellow man. He was over six feet tall with sleek and carved muscles that originated from hard farm work in the Ozark hills, his birthplace. In today’s language he would be called a “hunk,” and many a woman would turn her head at his passing.
Not only was Daddy strong and handsome, he was gentle, tender-hearted, and empathetic, especially with me. In the morning Mommy and I would see him off to work with lots of hugs and kisses. In the evening at his return, I would lavish in the affection he bestowed upon me. My favorite time was when he’d lift me upon those big, strong shoulders and carry me throughout our tiny house. He would bounce, sing, and call me, “Guffey, Guffey, and this was heaven to me.
Mommy, on the other hand, was nervous and a bit histrionic. She was a beautiful blue-eyed brunette, and I, a golden haired, precocious child, envied and competed with her. I always knew she loved me, but I think she was overwhelmed at the responsibility I entailed. She would often yell and holler at me, and she sometimes startled me with emotional outbursts. If I was extremely naughty, she would haul out the ping pong paddle or the pancake turner and try to spank me. I was afraid; but she looked so ridiculous, it seemed funny. So, I leaned towards my gentle Daddy for security, stability, and just pure, old joy.
I missed him terribly while he was at work and would whine and beg for Mommy to call Daddy home. Of course, she would deny that absurd request, and she’d offer me a cookie or story-time instead.
One day after sparring with Mommy, I yearned for Daddy to come home. I pouted and whined but to no avail. Finally, I gave up and began to rock in my own little rocking chair. It was wooden with a firm back and seat but with rails to support the rockers of the chair. In my anguish I became entangled (accidently on purpose) in these rails. I screamed, “Daddy, Daddy! Come home, come home.”
Mommy tried to release me, but I wouldn’t budge. She finally relented and called him at work.
He came home in a dash. He opened the door, strode in quickly, and called, “Guffey, Guffey! What’s the matter?”
I slid out of my predicament like WD40 on a stuck bicycle chain, and ran into my precious Daddy’s arms. He was my savior, and I was in heaven again.
Today I have a different savior, who is my heavenly father, the Lord Jesus Christ. He doesn’t call me, “Guffey, Guffey,” but He knows me by name. He’s gentle and kind, and He really loves me. Now, whenever I whine or cry, He comforts, directs, or softly chastises me. He died a terrible death to atone for my sins and gave me eternal life. And, for this I love him with all my life.
At age 91 Daddy is still living an independent life in his own home, the home in which I grew up. He has all his mental faculties, and, except for a few aches and pains, he is in relatively good health. The sleek carved muscles and the chestnut brown hair is gone, but mischief still sparkles in his emerald eyes. He still delights in me and me in him. I do help to take care of him. But, he delights in the Lord even more as the sands in his life’s hourglass swiftly dwindle. God bless this man, who once called me, “Guffey, Guffey.”
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. KJV John 3:16
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