My Married Life: Four fathers.

Here is a belated Father's day post, because these holidays tend to creep upon me.

I have four fathers that I am eternally grateful to, the first is my heavenly Father:

for giving me life, breath and these years on this earth. For being gracious and providing more than I deserve and all I ever need. For being my great Comforter, the One who is never far away, and Healer, wiping away every tear from my face and filling me with joy.

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And now for my husband, the father of my children:

I love him. What more can I say? He's steadfast, loyal, committed and diligent. He's gentle, forgiving and self-sacrificing.

He knocks sense into me when I've lost all of mine.

He's plain hilarious and can make me fall to the floor with laughter.

One of the most important things to me in finding a husband was that this man would have the desire and potential to be an incredible father. Both because he'd had that example set before him and because he had learned time and time again through his own mistakes what dying to himself and raising warriors meant.

And I am so very blessed to have found that.

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I would be remiss not to mention my Father-in-Law in this post, too. Without this man in my life, most certainly, my man wouldn't be in my life.

In all seriousness, without his guidance, counsel and discipline (possibly most importantly ;)), I would not be married to Peter today because he would not be the man he is. But because his father is a God-fearing man, and has sought tirelessly (sometimes tearfully!) to raise his children (specifically: son) in the same way, I have a husband and my children have a father that loves us, but that loves the Lord more, and lives with a gracious love because that is how he was taught to be.

My "other" Dad is hilarious. He'd be the first person to crack a joke at a funeral, or start a chain of puns that lasts for hours (that only very few people can understand). Like my husband, he loves a good brew, and could watch The Three Stooges all.day.long.

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Last, but most certainly not least, a few things about my father:

I used to love riding in my Daddy's Jeep because he'd let me use "the shifter", even if I was too small to see past the dashboard, he taught me to listen to the engine humming and know when to shift. Whenever we'd go on trips-- long or short-- he'd be sure to bring the "tickle bugs" along. In fact, I'm not sure they ever left his glove compartment. Somehow they were able to live in that Jeep for years and years, only coming out whenever he let them out to tickle us.

When we were really little he would sneak into our rooms in the morning before we were awake and at breakfast, tell us what we looked like sleeping: sometimes it was a snake, all curled up around a pillow, or Cinderella's step-sister, with her bottom in the air.

Growing up, I never tired of the "steam roller" game, where Dad would lay all us kids in a straight line on the family room floor, then roll over us like we were ground needing leveled. Or when he'd scoop me up in his arms and rub his rough "whiskers" on my soft cheeks.

He set an example for me to follow. I'm grateful that every morning I woke up, his Bible was on our kitchen table because he had gotten up far before the sun to read it. And I knew that if it wasn't on the table, something was wrong-- he was sick in bed (Dad still never gets sick), or something big was happening-- like mom was having a baby.

He taught me all about cars, cylinders, horsepower and torque (and was instrumental in creating a little place within me that actually cares about the newest Porsche, what Jeep has done with the Wrangler, why we should never buy Fords and especially nothing foreign, unless it is European, why real cars are manual transmission, why turbo engines are fastest and why quad-exhaust is better than dual). He taught me how to spot a "real car" (in our family, there are lots of autos that aren't actual cars) and before I was 10 I could name every one we passed on the highway (all my siblings can, in fact).

Some families talk about sports and politics around their dinner table, we talked of cars.

I always have been proud of my Dad's organizational skills and work ethic. Peter has told me many times, "I hate taking my car to a shop now that your Dad lives in Michigan. There really is no mechanic like him." Or, "Your Dad and I could finish this project in a quarter the time it's taken me because he is so organized, and now I know why," or, "Your Dad can fix anything. Always the right way, too."

Everything in my Dad's shop is packed neatly into containers that stack just right on their respective shelves. We often called him looking for something while he was at work and he knew exactly what we were looking for and just which shelf it was on and which box it was in. Peter has said, "I always used to be afraid that I wouldn't be able to fix anything, or wouldn't be organized or know anything at all. But not anymore, and that's because of your Dad."

He's honest, and works hard. Very hard. He has showed me and my siblings how to persevere with a task, even if the weather is "so hot" or "too cold" or we seemed "too young". In fact, each and every one of us was used in finishing our old house's basement-- whether it was hanging, plastering and sanding the drywall (what a mess), measuring and hanging a drop ceiling, or painting newly plastered walls. There's been no task he hasn't seen us fit to learn, and I am thankful for that.

If we were all working on projects and some would finish before the others, he showed us how to join them to help finish their task just as quickly as we had completed ours.

I'm thankful for my Dad, this year especially, as I see more and more the sacrifices he has made for me. I'm seeing the admirable examples he has set, whether consciously or not, and how vital those are for growth and maturity.