Treasures from Daddy

God blessed me with a good father, Barty O. Brinkley. It’s so much easier to love a heavenly Father if you’ve had a decent earthly father. My earthly father is now in heaven. Looking back, I realize that Daddy gave me many gifts—things I couldn’t fully recognize or appreciate until I was grown.

1. Daddy adored my mother. And my mother June was a firecracker! She would have burnt most men, but Barty knew how to handle her. He was gentle, calm, and easy-going. My parents were married for 63 years. It gives a child great security to know that her father is smitten with her mother.

During my parents’ last years together, my father had to go to a short-term care facility for physical therapy. He was gone several weeks. When he was discharged, I drove him home. The first thing he did when he got out of the car was to head straight to my mother’s room, shuffling on his walker with determination. He couldn’t wait to see her!

The night before Daddy died, my mother washed and cut up some strawberries for him. When she handed him the bowl, she said, “Aren’t these strawberries pretty?” Dad smiled and replied, “Yes, but they’re not half as pretty as you.”

2. Daddy worked hard. He retired from Watkins-Johnson Electronics after thirty years of dedicated service. Before the advent of computers, electronics was the booming industry. With just a high school diploma and some technical training, Daddy worked his way up from the bottom—assembling circuit boards—to become the plant manager.

Dad was an industrious and insightful supervisor. He understood how to motivate people to do their best work. (Hey, it worked on me! I got excellent grades in school.) My father’s employees loved him. He enjoyed mentoring younger men to later become managers too.

3. Daddy enforced boundaries. Now, granted, I was a pretty easy kid to raise. I was eager-to-please and obedient. Contrary to the stereotype that “only” children are spoiled, I consider myself to have been well-loved but well-disciplined. I don’t know how my parents did it. They never raised their voices at me. They treated me with respect. They took up their God-given mantle of authority and used it wisely. It never occurred to me to sass or disrespect them.

My mother perfected “the Mom-Eye.” She could just give me a LOOK that said she meant business, and that was all it took to light a fire under my tail.

My father’s approach was to slowly count “one … two ….” and then touch his belt buckle. I knew to start moving before he reached “three.” But somehow, I never remember Daddy reaching “three.” He never spanked me with a belt. I never heard of a “time out.” But I knew where my boundaries lay. Deep down, that’s what all kids want—a fence to protect them.

4. Daddy provided a stable routine. Like clockwork, my father arrived home from work every weekday at 5 p.m. Mom put dinner on the kitchen table, and the three of us ate together as a family. There was no TV playing in the background. We simply talked.

My father served as the “bookends” of my day.” He woke me up in the morning at 5 am to have my quiet time and get ready for school. At night he tucked me into bed promptly at 9 p.m. The only exception occurred once a year before Easter. I was allowed to sit up until 11 p.m.—two nights in a row!— to watch the annual broadcasting of Jesus of Nazareth. That was back in the day before VCRs, DVDs, and recording devices. Dinosaurs roamed the earth. If you missed a TV show, you MISSED it.

As a child I never realized what a gift it was to have a consistent routine. After I grew up and began volunteering at the Juvenile Detention Center, I met kids who came from homes with no boundaries and no routine. Many wondered when or if they were going to get their next meal. While my mom cooked beans and cornbread in the kitchen, their parents cooked meth. Many good things in life—like the air we breathe—are invisible. I never appreciated what a stable home environment my parents provided until I met those who were denied it.

5. Daddy helped me with activities that required patience. When I had a loose tooth, Daddy was the one who gently pulled it out with a thread. When I struggled with spelling, Daddy was the one who gave me practice tests. If I forgot to dot an “i” or cross a “t,” he marked the answer wrong. Details matter. When I was learning to drive, Daddy was the one who rode calmly beside me.

6. Daddy affirmed my self-worth. He hung my artwork in his office. He told his co-workers of my academic achievements. Never once did I doubt that he loved me and was proud of me.

Whenever I got dressed to go somewhere and bounded down the stairs, Daddy would whistle and tell me I looked pretty. Such a simple gesture, but so affirming. Most girls would gladly accept praise for their smarts, their talents, or their hard work. But inside every person bearing two X-chromosomes, there resides a little princess who wants nothing more than to be called “beautiful.” Walt Disney didn’t invent the idea; he simply capitalized upon it.

Even the best book concludes with a prince, riding on a white horse, coming to claim his beautiful bride (Rev. 19:11, 21:2).

Folks say that a boy needs a father. But I say that a girl REALLY needs a good father or a strong father figure. If she doesn’t receive love and affirmation from the man at home, she will seek it elsewhere—even to her own detriment.

7. Daddy showed up faithfully. In high school, I played the flute and piccolo in the marching band. For four years, my father showed up for every, single, half-time. show. When the band traveled out of state for a competition, Daddy drove there too. He stood hours in the bitter cold to watch me—one kid out of a hundred—perform a six-minute routine.

When I grew up, my father was the one who always took me (and later my husband too) to the airport and picked us up upon our return. I remember the first time I flew into Tri-Cities Airport after Daddy had passed away. I was tired from the trip and still cruising on autopilot. I exited the gate and instinctively looked toward the column where my father would normally stand waiting. But he wasn’t there. I caught myself wondering, “Has he gone to the restroom? Did he have to feed the parking meter? Was he in an accident?” Then it hit me: my father was GONE. He would never again pick me up from the airport.

Grief is a strange thing. It knocks you sideways at unexpected moments. I hurried through the baggage claim area to find a remote ladies’ restroom. Once inside the stall, I locked the door and sobbed.

Afterwards, I felt better. I gave God thanks for my Daddy. I had shed “good” tears. What a treasure to have had a father whose presence I missed!

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