When I was a kid, safety was something grownups talked about but no one really did anything about. One summer afternoon my brothers and I rigged a bicycle ramp by leaning a flimsy piece of used plywood against a crumpled trash barrel. Spotting me peddling my Schwinn toward the ramp, skinny legs pumping for all they were worth, Mom stuck her head out the screen door and yelled, “Ronnie, you better be careful!” You might think her warning was motherly concern was for my wellbeing—right? Wrong! Mom’s announcement was not in regard to my personal safety, but a warning that I’d better not hurt the trash can.
Mom’s warnings, I learned, had little to do with my immediate safety and more to do with pending punishment that would follow yet another act of stupidity. Mom’s warning were closely akin to dad’s ubiquitous, “If I have to stop this car!” warning. With four boys riding in the back seat, our huge old Mercury looked more like the travel bus for the World Wrestling Federation. It was a far cry from today’s air-bagged, car-seated, buckled-in minivans. We were free to roam in the old Merc, and it was not uncommon for one of us to “tag in” to complete a wrestling hold on another brother.
Dad was able to block out the Roman Greco games being played in the back seat as if he were driving in a sound proof booth, never flinching, never acknowledging the ruckus only inches from the back of his head, until the moment Mom raised her voice and commanded us to stop “Immediately!” Her warning set off an alarm in his head, and if we didn’t quiet down “Immediately!” we would soon experience Dad’s version of “shock and awe.”
Without warning, his long, lanky arm would swoop like a jet fighter from a smoky sky and penetrate our air space. It was an impressive display of athleticism, really—the way he could keep his eyes on the road, white-knuckling the wheel with one hand while his entire upper body careened over the seat back. The car swayed back and forth as he flailed the air, his giant hand grasping for any one of eight skinny legs or arms. Then came the warning! Clint Eastwood had nothing on Dad, his voice barely audible as he whispered through clenched teeth, “If I have to stop this car, you boys will be sorry!” The authority in his voice commanded a solemn hush.
Today, recalling those safety warnings only enrich my memories of Mom and Dad. Some were downright hilarious—“If you cut your toes off with that lawn mower, don’t come running to me!” Their warnings provided a homespun logic that helped hone my abstract thinking—yet another life-equipping gift my parents afforded me. Today’s legislated warnings are so superfluous they become invisible. I smile to myself every time I purchase a new appliance and read the inane warning labels. “Gosh, I’m glad they warned me about taking a bath with the toaster… What was I thinking?!”
Much of what I know about God I learned from my dad. Dad issued fewer warnings and they seemed to meet a higher purpose. He didn’t fuss about my childish behavior, he aimed higher than that—his warnings demanded that I respect and obey Mom. I apply that same logic to my relationship with God. I believe He’s not as concerned about how I behave, as why I behave as I do. He isn’t as concerned about what I’m doing but who I’m becoming.
I’m not writing all this as a neighborhood scold just to make you feel rotten. I’m writing as a father to you, my children. I love you and want you to grow up well, not spoiled. There are a lot of people around who can’t wait to tell you what you’ve done wrong, but there aren’t many fathers willing to take the time and effort to help you grow up.
1 Corinthians 4:14-15 MSG
When I sense God speaking a warning into my life today, I’m learning to react “Immediately!” but I don’t react in fear. I’m a Dad and even a Granddad myself, but I’m so thankful my heavenly Father still helps me grow up well.