anyone. “O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder . . .” Words like those sang me to sleep more often than not.
I never did understand why Dad did the tent thing. The brick-and-mortar thing would have been a lot easier. A lot less work too. To make matters worse, he never took an offering. That doesn’t mean people didn’t give. They did. But Dad never asked. He wanted folks to give out of conviction, not manipulation. Given the piles of crutches that stacked up over the years and the empty wheelchairs, he could have made a pile of money had he wanted to and probably flown to and fro in his own plane, but I never once saw my dad pass a plate.
When it came to music, Dad said his job was to remind people of the words and let them sing. He was musically talented enough that he could have played lead or rhythm for just about anybody, but he always said he was just background. “Spotlight the song and give it back to people. Put it in their mouths. Songs don’t belong to us. A song is a light we shine on others, not a light we shine on us.”
We’d been setting up the stage one day, and it was hot. We were resting. I’d gotten curious and realized that my father was unlike every other father I knew. “Dad, why do you do what you do? I mean, are you ever going to get a real job like other dads?”
He laughed. “I sincerely hope not.” He pointed to the front where people walked in. You could see the parking lot in the distance. “My job is to lead people from there to here. To walk them up and set them down in the presence of the One who can help them. Then . . .” He smiled. “Get out of the way.”
“Why?” I said.
“ ’Cause He’s got what they need. Not me. People want to dress me up in a fancy suit and put me on TV.” He shook his head and pointed at the lights. “Those things have an odd effect on a man.” He sucked between his teeth. “But remember, diamonds are only brilliant when they reflect.”
I’d only recently become aware of money and success and how others seemed to have it and we didn’t. “Dad, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do I have an inheritance?”
He laughed. “Who you been listening to?”
“Well, I mean, will I have money one day?”
Dad took his time answering. “Yes, son, you have an inheritance.”
I smiled. I knew it. We were rich. Dad had been hiding it all along. He’d struck a silver vein somewhere on the mountain and he was just keeping it quiet until I got older and we could build a big house and buy a Cadillac.
Then he said, “I’m not leaving something for you. I’m leaving something in you.”
I didn’t like the way that sounded.
12
M y first significant memory of the impact of my father on other people and what he was actually doing with his life came when I was eight. Word about Dad had spread. People were driving from California to hear him, and he began looking for bigger venues. We hired four guys just to park all the cars, and we’d grown from one tent to five—tied in the shape of a cross with the center being the stage. Each tent could seat over two hundred, and on most nights every chair was full. Not only that, but folks who couldn’t find a seat were standing four and five deep along the edges. Crowding in. Kids sitting on their fathers’ shoulders. Moms nursing babies. Old folks in wheelchairs.
Evidently fire and brimstone are more palatable than most folks let on. So with growing need, Dad needed room to grow.
He used to go on long hikes by himself. A quiet time to think. A few miles south of BV, Dad found a high-walled canyon set against the base of Mt. Princeton that had piqued his interest. He pulled out a topo map and showed it to me. From the air it looked like someone had cut a piece of pie out of the side of the mountain. The thirty- to forty-acre section of flat ground, shaped like a funnel, extended out from rock walls that rose several hundred vertical feet. To someone like Dad, who communicated to
I never did understand why Dad did the tent thing. The brick-and-mortar thing would have been a lot easier. A lot less work too. To make matters worse, he never took an offering. That doesn’t mean people didn’t give. They did. But Dad never asked. He wanted folks to give out of conviction, not manipulation. Given the piles of crutches that stacked up over the years and the empty wheelchairs, he could have made a pile of money had he wanted to and probably flown to and fro in his own plane, but I never once saw my dad pass a plate.
When it came to music, Dad said his job was to remind people of the words and let them sing. He was musically talented enough that he could have played lead or rhythm for just about anybody, but he always said he was just background. “Spotlight the song and give it back to people. Put it in their mouths. Songs don’t belong to us. A song is a light we shine on others, not a light we shine on us.”
We’d been setting up the stage one day, and it was hot. We were resting. I’d gotten curious and realized that my father was unlike every other father I knew. “Dad, why do you do what you do? I mean, are you ever going to get a real job like other dads?”
He laughed. “I sincerely hope not.” He pointed to the front where people walked in. You could see the parking lot in the distance. “My job is to lead people from there to here. To walk them up and set them down in the presence of the One who can help them. Then . . .” He smiled. “Get out of the way.”
“Why?” I said.
“ ’Cause He’s got what they need. Not me. People want to dress me up in a fancy suit and put me on TV.” He shook his head and pointed at the lights. “Those things have an odd effect on a man.” He sucked between his teeth. “But remember, diamonds are only brilliant when they reflect.”
I’d only recently become aware of money and success and how others seemed to have it and we didn’t. “Dad, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do I have an inheritance?”
He laughed. “Who you been listening to?”
“Well, I mean, will I have money one day?”
Dad took his time answering. “Yes, son, you have an inheritance.”
I smiled. I knew it. We were rich. Dad had been hiding it all along. He’d struck a silver vein somewhere on the mountain and he was just keeping it quiet until I got older and we could build a big house and buy a Cadillac.
Then he said, “I’m not leaving something for you. I’m leaving something in you.”
I didn’t like the way that sounded.
12
M y first significant memory of the impact of my father on other people and what he was actually doing with his life came when I was eight. Word about Dad had spread. People were driving from California to hear him, and he began looking for bigger venues. We hired four guys just to park all the cars, and we’d grown from one tent to five—tied in the shape of a cross with the center being the stage. Each tent could seat over two hundred, and on most nights every chair was full. Not only that, but folks who couldn’t find a seat were standing four and five deep along the edges. Crowding in. Kids sitting on their fathers’ shoulders. Moms nursing babies. Old folks in wheelchairs.
Evidently fire and brimstone are more palatable than most folks let on. So with growing need, Dad needed room to grow.
He used to go on long hikes by himself. A quiet time to think. A few miles south of BV, Dad found a high-walled canyon set against the base of Mt. Princeton that had piqued his interest. He pulled out a topo map and showed it to me. From the air it looked like someone had cut a piece of pie out of the side of the mountain. The thirty- to forty-acre section of flat ground, shaped like a funnel, extended out from rock walls that rose several hundred vertical feet. To someone like Dad, who communicated to
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