Watch This, Daddy!

The older they get, the more those words mean.

What does a father actually want for Father’s Day?

When I was twenty-five, I thought the answer was probably gifts.

To be fair, our church gives all the dads root beer every Father’s Day, which is a thoughtful gesture. The only problem is that I can’t stand root beer.

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A few years ago, one of the families in our Life Group rented a water slide for their son’s birthday and created a new Father’s Day weekend tradition. When I say water slide, I don’t mean one of those little inflatable slides you put in the backyard. This thing is massive. It is taller than their house. It is the kind you tell your kids to be careful. They invite our group over every year.

Every year since then, Karen asks me if that’s what I want to do for Father’s Day.

Every year, I tell her yes.

She already knows the answer before she asks. She usually smiles and says, “I just want you happy.”

The thing is, I am happy.

I enjoy grilling hamburgers and hot dogs. I enjoy sitting around talking with friends. I enjoy watching my kids run around and laugh with their friends. And if I’m being honest, I still enjoy climbing up that giant water slide and racing my kids to the bottom.

What I enjoy most, though, are the moments in between.

I enjoy hearing, “Watch this, Daddy!”

I enjoy being told it’s my turn to go down the slide.

I enjoy seeing my kids look over their shoulder to make sure I’m watching before they try something new.

Maybe that sounds silly, but it means something to me. It means they still care enough to ask. It means they still want my approval. As fathers, we don’t always realize how much those little moments matter until we notice them becoming fewer and farther between.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that the gifts aren’t really what matter.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate every card, every text, every hug, and every “Happy Father’s Day.” But if someone handed me a $500 gift card, I’d probably end up spending it on my family anyway.

The truth is, I don’t need much.

Knowing that Karen loves me is a gift.

Knowing my children love me is a gift.

Right now, as I type this, Grayson is stretched out beside me with his head resting on my arm.

He’s not talking.

He’s not asking for anything.

He’s just here.

At eight years old, he still thinks sitting next to Dad is a good way to spend an afternoon.

I know that season won’t last forever.

The thing about Grayson is that he’s my youngest. Brighton is the oldest, so many of the milestones in his life are the firsts. First driver’s license. First job. First graduation. First time leaving home.

With Grayson, many things will be the lasts.

The last bike rides.

The last time he asks me to watch how far he can kick the ball.

The last time he wants me to see the skid marks he made with his bike tire.

I don’t want him to stay little. That’s not how this works. He has to grow up just like the others. I want him to grow. I want him to become the man God created him to be. But I also understand that these moments don’t last forever, which is why I try to be intentional with them.

Today, we went to an arcade. Then we stopped for drinks and a treat at a local market. Years from now, he probably won’t remember whether the house was clean. He might remember spending the afternoon with Dad and getting to drink a Sun Drop in a glass bottle sitting in the front seat.

Fatherhood has taught me that very few people remember spotless floors. They remember who spent time with them.

One of the greatest blessings of getting older is seeing some of the seeds you’ve planted begin to grow.

When Brighton got old enough to work, Karen and I both encouraged him. Karen nudged. I pushed a little harder. I was the one who told him to apply at the recreation center. I was the one who encouraged him to spread his wings and learn some responsibility.

He loves it.

He loves earning his own money.

He loves the freedom that comes with it.

One thing I love is that the recreation center allows employees to read when things are slow. Brighton could have chosen anything. Instead, he chose to read his Bible. He comes home on rainy days and talks about things he’s learned from Scripture.

Brighton could have picked a novel, a video game magazine, or spent his downtime scrolling on his phone. Instead, he chose to read his Bible.

When he comes home talking about something he found in Scripture, I try not to act overly excited.

Inside, though, I’m thinking, “Lord, thank You so much.”

As a father, moments like that make you think maybe you’ve done something right.

Recently, Chloe asked us to sign her up as a crew leader for Vacation Bible School. We didn’t ask her to do it. Nobody pressured her. She simply saw a need and wanted to help.

She said she wanted to serve because the church needed her.

That makes me proud.

Sophie has a servant’s heart. If the sweet tea pitcher is empty, she’ll often make more. Before long, she’ll walk in carrying me a glass. It’s such a small thing, but kindness usually shows up in small things.

All of my children tell me goodnight before bed. The girls still kiss me on the head. Brighton doesn’t do that anymore, but he’ll still come give me a hug.

An almost eighteen-year-old boy who still hugs his dad?

I’ll take that all day long.

One of my favorite verses as a father is 3 John 1:4:

“I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in truth.”

Notice what John didn’t say.

He didn’t say success.

He didn’t say wealth.

He didn’t say influence.

He said truth.

I want my children to be successful. I want them to work hard and do well. But if I had to choose between worldly success and walking faithfully with Jesus, I wouldn’t need much time to make that decision.

All four of my children have made decisions to follow Christ. Before each of them was baptized, we sat down and had conversations. I wanted to make sure they understood what they were doing. I didn’t want them making a decision because everyone else was. I wanted them to know why they believed what they believed.

There is a joy in knowing your children are walking with the Lord that is difficult to describe. Happiness comes and goes. Joy remains.

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The older my children get, the less control I have. That’s one of the hardest lessons of fatherhood.

When they were little, I could keep them safe.

Now Brighton drives around town by himself.

That can be terrifying.

He’s a good driver, but not everyone else is.

I’ve told him more than once that his head has to stay on a swivel because driving isn’t as easy as it looks when you’re sitting in the passenger seat.

At some point, though, you realize you can’t be there for every decision. You can’t ride in every car. You can’t solve every problem. You can’t protect them from every mistake.

I finally just listen for Life360 to “ding” and tell me when he arrives where he is supposed to be. It took some time.

Eventually, you have to trust God to watch over them when you can’t.

Our family has a saying that gets repeated often:

“You can only control yourself.”

I hope my children hear my voice years from now.

More importantly, I hope they hear God’s voice.

Mine should simply be an echo of His.

I once read that a father’s job is to prepare his children to live in a world without him.

That statement hits harder now than it did when I first read it.

I hated that quote the first time I read it.

Not because it wasn’t true.

Because it was.

And because one day it will be true for me.

My goal isn’t to keep my children dependent on me forever.

My goal is to help them become the people God created them to be.

Maybe twenty years from now one of my kids will call or text and say, “Dad, can I run something by you?”

Maybe they’ll tell me about a problem at work.

Maybe they’ll ask about marriage.

Maybe they’ll ask about parenting.

Maybe they’ll finish by saying, “I know I can only control myself.”

Not because they remembered my words.

But because somewhere along the way, those words became theirs.

If that happens, I’ll smile.

Because that means they were listening.

And honestly, that’s the greatest Father’s Day gift I could ever receive.