TELL DAD TO HEAR MY WORDS

TELL DAD TO HEAR MY WORDS

Sometimes, it’s important to speak.  Always, it’s important to listen.  The following true story, courtesy of Brian Jett, brings these lessons home for us.  Listen with your heart.

“Son!” Tim's father shouted.  “Is it possible you could please turn that noise down!?”  Tim, who had only two months earlier earned his driver's license, calmly ejected his favorite music CD that had his favorite song.

“Sorry Dad, but I love that song cranked up loud because it makes me happy every time I hear it,” Tim less than calmly replied with a grin on his face.  His father glanced over in his son’s direction with a look of disgust.  “Tim, what on earth makes you happy by listening to that screaming guitar and what’s the name of that garbage?”

Tim smiled and vowed silently that he would never become the bitter, angry, negative and miserable father he had seen his entire life, now seated next to him on the drive home.  Tim’s mother tried her best to fend off any possible future negativity in him, their only son and child, by always praising him and even by clapping in rhythm to the music Tim would ask her to hear.

She had grown weary of trying to tell Tim how happy his father was when they first got married.  In fact, Tim told his mother that she didn't have to defend his Dad.  He promised he would be more like her when he got married and had a family of his own.

“Well Dad, the song is called “Happy” and Phil Keaggy wrote it.  He’s a great guitar player and sings great too!”  Tim’s irritated father just rolled his eyes and replied, “All I hear is that blasting guitar, so Mr. Keaggy or whatever his name is must have lost his vocal chords.”

“No way Dad!  You tell me to turn if off before he gets the chance to sing!  You never listen long enough to hear the words!”  His father shifted in his seat and pointed to a scripture Tim had pinned up on the sun visor of the old AMC Pacer he had bought with money saved since age 14, earned by mowing lawns in their neighborhood.  “That church you go to would be ashamed of you if they only knew the trash you listen to that makes you so happy!  Your Mom takes you there but it’s obviously a waste of time.  And you wonder why I don't go?!?”

As Tim neared a familiar bend in the road leading to their home, an oncoming sports car careened out of control.  Tim frantically tried to steer to the right but the red bullet slammed into the driver’s side of the Pacer, propelling it with great force against a maple tree on Tim's side of the car.

Tim’s father was jarred but had not one blemish as he looked over and saw his son’s face covered in blood, his body slumped forward and resting motionless against the steering wheel.

“Oh God!  Someone help my son!”  Tim’s father jumped out of the car and ran down the street to flag down a passing motorist.  The driver of the sports car, also unharmed, ran from his slightly damaged car with a cell phone in his hand.  “Sir, I’m sorry!  Here’s my phone,” the college-aged young man shouted with a strong smell of beer on his breath.

Tim was taken to the same hospital where he was born.  When his mother arrived in the emergency room, she embraced her distraught husband as both wept uncontrollably.  The doctor, who had administered only 30 minutes of treatment in an effort to save their son’s life, asked them to come to a private room.

“I have only had to share this kind of news three times since I began working in the emergency room at this hospital and three times is way too many,” the gray-haired doctor somberly stated.  “Your son’s chest cavity was crushed and we did all we could, but he just didn’t have the strength to hold on.”  Tim’s parents placed their hands to their faces, sobbing and hoping that what they had just heard was wrong. 

“Doctor,” Tim’s mother pleaded, “Are you telling me my son is dead?”  The doctor steadied himself and gained as much composure as he could before replying.  “Yes ma’am, your son’s injuries were extremely severe but he was alert for the last ten minutes we were trying to save him.”  Tim’s parents looked startled and waited anxiously for what the doctor would say next.

“Your son smiled at me and asked that if he died, that I’d promise to tell his Dad something.  I don't know, sir, what your son's final words will mean to you, but I am going to honor his request.  I’ve never, in all 27 years of practicing medicine, heard anyone speak with such strength and clarity as your son did in that condition.  Sir, he asked me to tell you to…please listen long enough to hear the words.”

Tim’s father melted to the floor and the doctor discerned that it would be best to leave the grieving parents alone in the private room.

Two weeks after Tim’s burial, his father opened the passenger’s side door of the Pacer that he simply could not bear to sell.  He retrieved the music CD and pulled the scripture down that remained on the visor.  He got in his Jeep and turned Tim’s favorite song up loudly and listened through the guitar solo until he heard the soulful man’s tenor voice singing the words to that song entitled “Happy.”

The lyrics rang out joyfully: “I’m so happy Lord; I’m so grateful Lord since You came to me; You set me free and You welcomed me, in Your family...”

He listened to the song repeatedly for a solid hour before he pulled his new Jeep he'd selfishly bought only three days after Tim so happily bought his old beat up AMC Pacer.  The Jeep now meant nothing to him, but as he pulled the scripture out of his shirt pocket he knew what Tim had been trying to tell him for so many years.  Tearfully he read the words of his son’s note that he clutched in his hands: “A happy heart makes the face cheerful, but heartache crushes the spirit.” (Proverbs 15:13)

Through Tim’s final words, empowered by the Holy Spirit, he had made sure that his Dad would never be the same again.

Sisters and brothers, be continually blessed, and please (above all else) MAKE SURE YOU ARE READY TO MEET OUR SOON COMING KING. Maranatha!