My Father’s Eyes
On Father’s Day in 1981 I made a “public profession of faith” when I walked down the aisle of the church where my father served as pastor. Like every Sunday he had “given an invitation” before the last hymn.
“If anyone wants to make a public profession of faith, rededicate your lives to Christ, join the church, or you just need prayer, come forward as we sing.”
I was nine years old and I met my father at the Communion Table and waited until everyone stopped singing. He asked them to sit down.
It wasn’t a surprise to him that I wanted to make a profession of faith and join the church that day, but I know it still meant a lot to him that I chose to do it on Father’s Day. Whether you have noticed or not, I’m a bit of a “Daddy’s Girl.” If my mother was not the kind soul she is who loved Dad even more than I do, she would likely get tired of hearing about him.
To make a public profession of faith means to stand before a congregation to say publicly that you want to “accept Jesus into your heart.” That is how we talked about it 1981.
After Daddy asked the congregation to sit down (because it would take a minute), he informed them that I had come forward to make that public profession of faith. I wish I could remember the exact words that I said when Dad asked me if I wanted to share anything. I’m sure it was something like, “I want to accept Jesus into my heart.”
Insert sound of congregation trying to keep from applauding while they “ooh” and “ahh” and my mother burst into tears.
Then Dad picked up the red Confession of Faith that he had already written a note inside and would hand to me afterwards, turned to the suggested questions to ask someone who was joining the church found in the Directory of Worship and, like every other person who joined one of denomination’s churches, asked:
Do you repent of your sin and believe Jesus Christ to be your Savior and the Lord of your life?
Do you believe the scriptures of the Old and New Testaments to be the inspired word of God, the source of authority for faith and practice, and will you read and study them for guidance in living the Christian life?
Do you promise to be a faithful member of this church by participating in worship, sharing in its ministry of witness and service, supporting the government of the [the denomination], and loving your brothers and sisters in Christ?
Will you strive to overcome temptation and weakness, grow in knowledge and grace, and practice love in all relationships, being strengthened in your personal discipleship by your life in the community of faith?
Do you promise to be a good steward of the life, talents, time, and money which God has entrusted to you, giving of these gifts to the church?
I love that phrase, “grow in knowledge and grace.”
A couple of weeks before I stood and answered “Yes” to all those questions, something weird happened. I was at church camp. It was during worship one evening. We had worship in an outdoor pavilion. I can’t tell you anything that was said during the worship service. I have no memory of the songs that were sung, though it would be a good bet that Pass It On (“It only takes a spark to get a fire going . . .”) was on the list. I have no idea who preached that night or what they said, but it is also likely that it was someone related to me. What I do remember is that there was time for personal prayer after worship. And, I remember sitting by myself and crying and not fully understanding why. I was having a lot of emotion. I don’t remember worship being particularly emotional. We weren’t known for our “Come to Jesus” experiences, so I don’t think it was one of those moments when all the kids ended up in tears and wanting to follow Jesus so that they didn’t suffer in hell for all eternity. Because the memory is not clear, I can’t promise that. I’m 99% sure it was not that, though.
In fact, now that I have a vocabulary for that feeling, I know it was likely the first time I ever felt the presence of the Living Jesus with me — the Holy Spirit. The emotion seemed to come from somewhere inside of me and outside of me all at the same time. It was hard to describe. It wasn’t scary, but I couldn’t quite understand it. I went to one of the adults from my church who was sitting by herself in the pavilion (you know how adults do at church camp — to be there in case anyone needs them) and I think I said something like, “I think I want Jesus in my heart.”
She was kind. She was always kind. She listened to me. She prayed with me. She celebrated the decision I had made. She told me that when we got home I should talk with my father about it. If I was ready, I could join the church and let everyone know.
So, I did. I told my parents when I got home. Again, I was nine years old. All my memories around this are pretty fuzzy. Of course my parents were thrilled, though. And, we made the plans for me to share the news with my church family on Father’s Day.
Sometimes when I was a little older, I would sing Amy Grant’s Father’s Eyes on Father’s Day. It seemed like the congregation ate that up. I know Daddy liked it because he liked having special music as part of the worship service. He and Mom would take me up to the church (right next door, just up the hill) on Saturday afternoon and I would practice singing with the cassette tape track. One side had the song including Amy Grant singing. One side was made just for that — for little girls to sing in church to.
I felt really special singing it because I knew I was singing about God, but also about my dad. I do have my father’s eyes. In fact, I’m the one of four who ended up with those deep brown eyes. My siblings are all blue-eyed babies. Having my father’s eyes has always meant more to me than it should. I’m not sure why. Probably because I was the only one. I felt special. I’ve always liked to feel special! (Of course, I am also the only sibling who has his enormously wide nose. That didn’t make me feel special in the same way.)
When I was pregnant, both times, the only physical attribute that I ever really wished for my children was that they would also have my father’s brown eyes. Can you guess? Both of them are blue-eyed babies. They have their own father’s eyes. They are beautiful. And, thank God. They didn’t end up with my father’s nose.
I still have the Confession of Faith that my father gave me when I made that public profession of faith and joined the church on Father’s Day 1981. I no longer sing Amy Grant’s Father’s Eyes though. Not in public anyway. It just isn’t as cute as it once was.
I may not be every mother’s dream for her little girl
And my face may not grace the mind of everyone in the world
But that’s all right, as long as I can have one wish I pray
When people look inside my life, I want to hear them sayShe’s got her Father’s Eyes
Her Father’s Eyes
Her Father’s Eyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeesssssssssssss
Just like my Father’s Eyes
