I grew up in the home of a Christian mom and a non-Christian dad. I remember my mom inviting my dad to go to church with her nearly every week. My dad always said, “No”. This was no surprise to me. My dad was a man who despised the church. I still, to this day, do not know why he harbored such spite. But he did. My dad, though, in many ways was a “good” man. He was hardworking. He was honest. He was disciplined. But, on the dark side, he was verbally abusive. My mother, it seemed, could never do anything right in my father’s eyes. She would, for example, put a banquet of delicious food on the table. And my father would taste one bite and say, “You’ve been cooking this meal for over thirty years. How come you can’t get it right? What did you do; empty a whole bag of salt on it?” Whenever one of his work tools could not be found, he would always blame mom. He would snap at her, “All right, what did you do with my tools? I know where I left them. And they’re not there. So, what did you do with them?” This type of verbal abuse persisted day after day for years. My mother was emotionally beaten to mush. Her self-esteem was steadily crushed. I never remember hearing my dad say, “I love you” to my mom, or “you sure are pretty today.” From the time I became a believer (at the age of 13) until I moved overseas as a young missionary (at the age of 23) I regularly overheard my mom in the livingroom at night praying for my dad’s salvation. I often joined her. I shamefully admit, however, that I eventually gave up praying for my dad. He had a hard heart. And I just did not think he would ever humble himself in repentance. One day years later, however, while I was serving in Munich as a church planter (at the age of 34) I received a call from the States. “Your dad recently made a profession of faith,” the person on the other end told me. “Oh...sure,” I replied with sheer disbelief. “No, seriously; his decision seems to be genuine.” Yeah...right, I told myself. My dad was 69. There was just no way I could accept the report as having any validity. Shortly thereafter, though, I heard that my mother a few weeks prior had invited my dad, as usual, to go with her to church on a Sunday morning. My mother told him that a guest speaker named Sonny Holland would be starting a week-long series of revival services. To my mother’s utter shock, my dad paused and said, “Yeah...I think I’ll go with you this morning.” It was the first time in thirty years that my dad accepted her invitation. We still do not know why he said, “Yes”. That afternoon, my mother nervously asked my dad if he would like to go back that evening for the next service. “Sure, I’ll go with you again,” he told her. And he did. At my mother’s stammering invitation, my dad attended the church services with her on Monday night, Tuesday night, Wednesday night, Thursday night, and Friday night. On Friday night, the miraculous happened. My father walked the aisle during the public invitation and ran into the arms of the Savior. I was still skeptical. Two years later, I received another call from the States. This time I was informed that my dad had been diagnosed with brain cancer and would probably die within three months. My family and I returned immediately to the States to be with my parents during my dad’s “last” days. Upon reuniting with my dad, I was astounded. I no longer knew this man. He was gentle. He was kind. He was indeed new. He would say things to my mom like, “that was one of the best meals I’ve ever had”. He even told her over and over again, “I love you”. I attended the following Wednesday evening prayer service with them at my home church. There were round 300 people present that evening. At the end of the Bible study the pastor asked if anyone had anything to say in closing. I saw my father raise his hand. When the pastor acknowledged him, my dad asked if he could approach the microphone. I was in such a state of shock that I failed to help my dad as he teetered up the aisle. A few men helped him up the platform. My dad, who had never spoken to a public group in his life, said into the microphone, “You all know by now that I’m dying with cancer. But I am ready.” He broke into tears. “I am ready because of that woman back there.” He pointed to my mom. “She loved me, prayed for me, and forgave me during all the years that I despised her religion.” He paused. “I now only have one regret. And that is that I didn’t accept God’s grace as a little boy. I’ve wasted my life.” He wept again. “If you are here tonight and have refused to bow your heart to God, I beg you...don’t waste your life like I did. Surrender to Jesus now.” My father died five months later. I share this story to encourage you to not stop praying for loved ones who seem unreachable. Randall Arthur RandallArthur
Posted on: Fri, 08 Nov 2013 20:44:26 +0000
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