Photo and Commentary ©2025 by Shelley Schurch
Sunday, June 15, 2025
My father never read a parenting book. I’m sure of that. For one thing, I don’t think there were many (any?) such books when he became a father. And, even if there were, I don’t think he would have been interested.
He was not a perfect father; I was not a perfect daughter. Yet one thing was clear – we loved each other. How did he love me? Let me count the ways:
He gave me a nickname. He gave everyone he liked, or loved, a nickname. My mother merited several. I had a couple.
He spent time with me. Born when my older sisters were seven and nine years old, I was the baby of the family, and always available when he asked who wanted to go for a walk in the evening. I would take his big hand, and we would amble through the neighborhood, stopping to talk with friends along the way. Sometimes we went further afield, even as far as the boat harbor, where I would hold on tight to his hand as we navigated the floating walkways and admired the boats, reading all their names and homeports.
He gave me the best gifts. One of his nicknames for me was “Buttonhook.” I never questioned the reason behind that name. He said it in an affectionate way, so it felt loving to me. When I was eleven or twelve years old he gave me a genuine buttonhook with a mother-of-pearl handle. It had been in his family for many years, and I treasured it. He gave me classic books, like Little Women, in elegant editions. Money wasn’t plentiful, but he surprised me with a second-hand bike that was perfectly good – and patiently taught me how to ride it. One day, as he jogged behind me, holding onto the back of the seat while I was pumping the pedals, he let go – and I was on my own, riding down the street with the wind in my hair and joy in my heart.
He made learning fun. When we had to memorize the state capitals for school, he devoted a Sunday afternoon to acting out the names of all the capitals for me to learn. I can still see how he pretended to be shy, then pointed across the street to the house where my friend Ann lived. The state capital? Cheyenne, Wyoming!
My stories could go on and on, stretching through the thirty-five years I knew him. Memories of my father spill over into tears, as I wish I could give him one more hug, tell him one more time that I love him.
Did my father mirror the love of my Heavenly Father? Yes and No. But I know Who did, always. When His disciple Philip, after years of walking and talking with Jesus, asked Him to “show us the Father,” Jesus replied:
“Have I been with you so long, and yet you have not known Me, Philip? He who has seen Me has seen the Father . . .” (John 14:9, NKJV)
In chapters 14, 15, and 16 John documents what was on Jesus’ heart in the hours before His betrayal and arrest; what He felt His friends most needed to hear. He talks about His Father all throughout these three chapters, and introduces the gift and ministry of the Holy Spirit. And then in chapter 17 we hear His earnest outpouring of prayer for those disciples then, and for us now.
Five words from His last message have been ringing in my mind this past week: “ . . . the Father Himself loves you . . .” (John 16:27)
And that brings me, at last, to the photo at the beginning of this blog post. It’s a partial glimpse of our refrigerator, which serves as a canvas for some of my favorite things. Also ringing through my mind this week have been the words on the well-worn card at the bottom of the photo. They are the concluding lines of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “In the Valley of the Elwy”:
God, lover of souls, swaying considerate scales,
Complete Thy creature dear O where it fails,
Being mighty a master, being a father and fond.
On this Father’s Day, I honor my father, and your father, and any fathers reading these words. I thank our Heavenly Father for being so fond of us that He wants us to live with Him forever. He, and Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, are walking us all the way Home.