that turbocharged V12 engine roared to life
wide open!
The boat jumped forward, popping dock lines left and right, and started to take out part of the dock. Captain Kline screamed, “Who put the boat in gear? Who put the boat in gear?”
I shot out of the engine room and up two decks to the wheel-house. By then, only one dock line was still holding, and if it broke, the boat would take out a dozen or so private yachts beyond. Frantically, I jerked the throttles down into neutral, and as the boat settled down, Captain Kline burst into the wheelhouse right behind me, still screaming, “Who put the boat in gear? Who put the boat in gear?”
At that moment, if my orphan heart could have blamed anybody else, I would have, but he and I were the only ones on board. The boat was drifting out, held by one dock line, the dock had sustained severe damage, and I had almost destroyed many thousandsof dollars worth of yachts. I hung my head in shame and humiliation at my failure. Then, in my greatest moment of failure and embarrassment, Captain Kline started laughing, a deep belly laugh.
I looked up in amazement. With a big smile on his face, Captain Kline said, “I bet you’ll never do
that
again!”
He didn’t yell at me! He didn’t ridicule me! He didn’t condemn me! Instead, he showed me that it was okay to fail every now and then in the process of learning. He also assured me that he would pay for repairing the dock. Even in my moment of greatest failure, Captain Kline gave me the gift of honor. That’s what a father does.
The Test of Sonship
Captain Kline loved me like a son, and I loved him like a father. But that was not enough because I still had an orphan heart. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, my relationship with Captain Kline was built around what he was doing
for me
—he was fulfilling my dream to be a fishing boat captain.
For two years, he poured into me his 40 years of knowledge and experience with the sea and with captaining fishing boats. He promised me, “Jack, once you have your 730 days at sea, pass the Coast Guard exam, and get your Captain’s license, I’ll make you the captain of the boat. Then later, we’ll draw up a contract, and you’ll be owner of the fleet one day. I’ll live off the payments, and the fleet will be yours.”
Who wouldn’t be faithful and loyal with that type of deal? For two years I never failed to do anything Captain Kline told me to do. I obeyed every command and followed every instruction. I was like a son, and he was like a father to me. But you can’t measure sonship—you can’t measure true loyalty and faithfulness—simplyby outward obedience, because outward obedience can still mask an orphan heart.
In the story of the prodigal son in Luke 15, the angry older brother never left home, never demanded his inheritance early, and never disobeyed his father; but as the story reveals, he was obedient for all the wrong reasons. He never connected with his father’s heart, and he felt like a slave and an orphan even in his father’s house.
Unconsciously, my relationship with Captain Kline was based upon what he could do for me and not for relationship. Outwardly, it looked as though I was subject to Captain Kline’s mission, but in reality I was subject to my own mission. Captain Kline wanted to raise up a son to whom he could leave a legacy. My orphan heart was more interested in fulfillment of my dream. We never really know what spirit is in us until our father, boss, or pastor makes a decision that does not benefit us—and then our true heart is revealed. We do not know what we are full of until we have been bumped—and then our true selves spill over.
One day, believing that the time was right for me to be captain, I approached Captain Kline. His response was not what I expected. “I’m sorry, Jack,” he said. “I know what I promised you, but I can’t do it yet. My wife has cancer, and her care and treatment are draining every dollar we
wide open!
The boat jumped forward, popping dock lines left and right, and started to take out part of the dock. Captain Kline screamed, “Who put the boat in gear? Who put the boat in gear?”
I shot out of the engine room and up two decks to the wheel-house. By then, only one dock line was still holding, and if it broke, the boat would take out a dozen or so private yachts beyond. Frantically, I jerked the throttles down into neutral, and as the boat settled down, Captain Kline burst into the wheelhouse right behind me, still screaming, “Who put the boat in gear? Who put the boat in gear?”
At that moment, if my orphan heart could have blamed anybody else, I would have, but he and I were the only ones on board. The boat was drifting out, held by one dock line, the dock had sustained severe damage, and I had almost destroyed many thousandsof dollars worth of yachts. I hung my head in shame and humiliation at my failure. Then, in my greatest moment of failure and embarrassment, Captain Kline started laughing, a deep belly laugh.
I looked up in amazement. With a big smile on his face, Captain Kline said, “I bet you’ll never do
that
again!”
He didn’t yell at me! He didn’t ridicule me! He didn’t condemn me! Instead, he showed me that it was okay to fail every now and then in the process of learning. He also assured me that he would pay for repairing the dock. Even in my moment of greatest failure, Captain Kline gave me the gift of honor. That’s what a father does.
The Test of Sonship
Captain Kline loved me like a son, and I loved him like a father. But that was not enough because I still had an orphan heart. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, my relationship with Captain Kline was built around what he was doing
for me
—he was fulfilling my dream to be a fishing boat captain.
For two years, he poured into me his 40 years of knowledge and experience with the sea and with captaining fishing boats. He promised me, “Jack, once you have your 730 days at sea, pass the Coast Guard exam, and get your Captain’s license, I’ll make you the captain of the boat. Then later, we’ll draw up a contract, and you’ll be owner of the fleet one day. I’ll live off the payments, and the fleet will be yours.”
Who wouldn’t be faithful and loyal with that type of deal? For two years I never failed to do anything Captain Kline told me to do. I obeyed every command and followed every instruction. I was like a son, and he was like a father to me. But you can’t measure sonship—you can’t measure true loyalty and faithfulness—simplyby outward obedience, because outward obedience can still mask an orphan heart.
In the story of the prodigal son in Luke 15, the angry older brother never left home, never demanded his inheritance early, and never disobeyed his father; but as the story reveals, he was obedient for all the wrong reasons. He never connected with his father’s heart, and he felt like a slave and an orphan even in his father’s house.
Unconsciously, my relationship with Captain Kline was based upon what he could do for me and not for relationship. Outwardly, it looked as though I was subject to Captain Kline’s mission, but in reality I was subject to my own mission. Captain Kline wanted to raise up a son to whom he could leave a legacy. My orphan heart was more interested in fulfillment of my dream. We never really know what spirit is in us until our father, boss, or pastor makes a decision that does not benefit us—and then our true heart is revealed. We do not know what we are full of until we have been bumped—and then our true selves spill over.
One day, believing that the time was right for me to be captain, I approached Captain Kline. His response was not what I expected. “I’m sorry, Jack,” he said. “I know what I promised you, but I can’t do it yet. My wife has cancer, and her care and treatment are draining every dollar we
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