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”...I am not seeking my own good but the good of many, so that they may be saved. Follow my example, as I follow the example of Christ. 1 Corinthians 10:33-11:1

My dear children, for whom I am again in the pains of childbirth until Christ is formed in you... Galatians 4:19

    Jesus appeared to me again the other night. While I see Jesus often in the face of a mentor, I saw Jesus best in my Dad.

    Dad went to heaven nearly 11 years ago. But I saw his face so vividly, and his tenor voice so flooded my dreams that when I woke it seemed Dad's presence lingered in the room. I stared into the darkness as a long forgotten old faith-song rang in my head: “Precious memories, how they linger. How they ever flood my soul. In the stillness of the midnight, precious sacred scenes unfold.” As the song filled my heart, I surfed through long-ago images of my father's faith-mentoring.

    Dad actually homesteaded land in Canada, where he raised wheat and cattle over half of his life. Dad's arms were toil-hardened by years of heavy ranch work. He had the hands of a farmer and the soul of a poet. Six grades measured his formal schooling, but not his learning. Until his death at age eighty-five, Dad read voraciously. He wrote some, too, preserving some of his faith-thoughts in poetry.

    My father showed me Jesus over and over again. Everybody knew Dad's handshake was as good as any notarized contract. And when neighbors were sick, Dad was there. When bereavement struck. Dad was there. In the field, we took off our caps, and then offered thanks. A drunk stumbled into a church meeting and I saw my Dad sit down and put his arm around the man.

    Dad seemed to see the Almighty everywhere.

“Look how rich we are...”

    After supper on many a frosty winter evening, Dad and I pulled on our parkas, mittens, and overshoes and trudged to the barn to finish a few chores. I singularly recall one night, when the hard, dry snow scrunched under our boots and the soft light of the lantern spilled across the whiteness. Dad stopped and pointed to the bright particles glistening at the rim of our pool of light. “Look how rich we are,” he proclaimed, “God has up and scattered diamonds on our path.”

    Another mentoring moment came late one spring as two storm fronts met over our ranchland at sunset. The sky displayed an awesome extravaganza of color and motion. Dad took off his cap and stood transfixed as if in worship with the swirling colors reflected in his eyes. Then he pulled me close and talked quietly of the power and majesty of the High King of Heaven.

    During the long, bitter Saskatchewan winters, our house was heated by an ornate, glass-windowed, coal-devouring heater. A brief moment of one long-ago winter night still stands vividly in my memory. Deep in the night I heard movement nearby and sleepily opened one eye. The glow from the heater, the only light in the room, danced across Dad's rounded shoulders and his tousled head. In his long-handled underwear, with the funny rump-line, Dad was kneeling by my bed in prayer.

    Today my heart is full. Dad showed me Jesus. I pray that some day when my children awaken in the night and remember me, their “precious memories” will stir thoughts of more than a dad who loves them, I hope they see a glimpse of Jesus.

And we, who with unveiled faces all behold and reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit. 2 Corinthians 3:18