When I was seven years old, I’d had enough of my father’s rules and decided I could make it on my own. With my clothes in a paper bag, I stormed out the back gate. I didn’t go far. I got to the end of the alley and remembered I was hungry. I remember rather sheepishly taking my seat at the supper table across from the very father I had, only moments before, disowned.

Did Dad know? I suspect he did. Fathers usually do. Was I still his son? Apparently so. No one was sitting in my place at the table. Suppose you’d asked, “Mr. Lucado, your son says he has no need of a father. Do you still consider him your son?” I don’t have to guess at his answer.  He called himself my father even when I didn’t call myself his son. His commitment to me was greater than my commitment to him!  Does that sound familiar?

From Dad Time