As below, so above; if our heart for the Lord Jesus Christ runs lukewarm for Him below, who are we to suppose that some great change will occur when we see Him face to face? At death, there will be a great change, but only according to the treasure of our hearts. If we seek little intimacy with Him below, what expectation can we have for beyond? 

I’ve never been much of a ‘morning person’. My father, by contrast, most certainly was. All the years I knew him, there was never a day wherein my father so much as even slept in. Not by my recollection, at any rate. Did he come home from work most days exhausted and often fall asleep during movies in the evening? Sure. Early to rise, early to bed, as they say. Nonetheless—my father was an early riser and no one could take that accolade from him. 

Growing up in the country on a ‘hobby farm’, of sorts, there was no shortage of work to be done around the property. My father had to wake early to ensure these many responsibilities were attended to. In addition to the countless household renovations he had undertaken, there were always fences in constant need of repair, paths in the forest that required blazing, and all the rest that rounds out the many joys and hassles of country life. There were goats to release for pasture, miniature horses to feed and water, eggs to gather, stables to clean, and most pressing: a small garden to protect from those very same goats and horses. 

One day, whether by some neglect of my father’s or my own (likely my own), we heard a commotion outside the barn where our garden was. It sounded much like the stomping of many small, hooved feet on a rampage. He was working by the barn, and I had stepped indoors for a moment. “The goats! The garden! I thought you were watching them!” we exclaimed to one another from across the yard. Running outside to investigate, we indeed saw our small flock of goats fleeing from—and through!—the garden as though Death himself pursued them. What could have spooked them?, we thought, as we looked around the assortment of vegetables for a clue, thinking we might stumble across some predator, whether a snake or perhaps even a raccoon. All we found in the end were a few gobbled heads of leaf lettuce and, still swaying on its stem like some dreaded talisman of emerald doom, a half-eaten jalapeño pepper—to my recollection, the goats never again dared set cloven hoof in that garden.

Many such chores and adventures littered my childhood. Yet, well before any of these tasks were attended to, while the shadows of early morning still rested heavily upon wood and field, my father busied himself with other, more important work. 

In and out of season, it was ever my experience to find him in the Word during those early morning hours. Whether in the pale light of spring or in the thick dark of winter, my father remained consistent and steadfast in his daily Bible devotions. As I remember him even now, I can picture his shadowy form sitting in our sunroom; the rising mists of freshly brewed coffee ebbing between his own silhouette and the dimly lit forms of our two German shepherds as they sat by his feet, the audio Bible trickling from his phone like a gently rushing stream.

It was my father’s devotion to the word of God, above all else he taught me, that most shaped my spiritual life and character. Imperfect and flawed as he was, my father always reminds me of the man in Psalm 1:1-3,

“Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the LORD, and on His law he meditates day and night. He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers.”

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