“See how very much our Father loves us, for he calls us his children, and that is what we are!” —1 John 3:1 (NLT)
On this Father’s Day, I’m grateful for dads who anchor their children in the love of God—especially those who don’t just talk about God’s love but actually help their kids experience it.
There was a time early in my life when my dad showed me what God’s love feels like, and I walked away changed.
It was my junior year of high school, and I was playing football for the first time. During my freshman and sophomore years, I watched from a distance. I saw the camaraderie, the excitement of game day, and the pride after wins. Most of all, I listened as the players talked about winning a state championship. Before long, I believed it would happen too, and I wanted to be part of it.
So that summer, I joined the team.
I didn’t play much that year. When I did get in the game, I was usually confused and learning on the fly. But I loved playing defense. It was simple, aggressive, and fun. I had a couple of exciting moments, like breaking up a long pass to stop a comeback. But most of the time, I stood on the sideline and served as a cheerleader wearing shoulder pads.
I did have one consistent role: kicking extra points and field goals. With my soccer background, I was reliable enough, and for most of the season, none of the kicks really mattered. We had a good team and were winning our games comfortably.
As the season progressed, a state championship suddenly felt within reach. After we won our district and sectional games, only three teams stood in our way.
We traveled to a small rural town for the quarterfinal game. As our bus rolled in, I noticed signs on restaurants and stores saying, “Closed for the Game.” The whole town had shut down. Thousands packed the stands, and people stood on cars just to watch. This wasn’t just another high school football game.
From the opening kickoff, it was intense. For the first time in the playoffs, we were challenged. It soon became a defensive battle. In the second quarter, one of our starting safeties was pulled. To my surprise, I was sent onto the field.
Determined to make an impact, I chased every ball I could. Toward the end of the half, I dove after a pass—interception! My first ever. My teammates erupted as we headed into halftime tied 7–7. I had never felt more alive.
The second half was just as tight. Neither team could score. At the end of regulation, the score was still 7–7.
Overtime.
In overtime, we got the ball first. They stopped us three plays in a row. My coach turned to me and said, “Get in there and kick the field goal.”
Suddenly, the game rested on me. I jogged onto the field, trying to treat it like any other kick. But it wasn’t. This one mattered. Everything we had worked for was on the line.
I marked my steps and waited for the hike. The snap was good. The hold was clean. I kicked.
Immediately, I knew I had kicked it too low. A defender’s hand shot up and blocked it.
My heart sank.
I stayed on the field for defense, trying to pull myself together. We held them for three downs. Then their kicker came out. His kick sailed through the uprights.
Game over. We lost.
Never in my life have I felt like a bigger failure than right then and there. Our dream of a state championship was gone, and I believed it was my fault. I had let my teammates down. The seniors. The fans. Our school. Our city.
As I walked off the field, I didn’t want anyone to see me. I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. I kept my helmet on because I could feel the tears coming.
As I approached the sideline, I saw my dad.
He was standing there, waiting, eyes locked on me. He didn’t talk to anyone else coming off the field. He was focused only on his son.
I knew exactly where I was going. I crossed the sideline, dropped my helmet, and buried my head in his chest, tears streaming down my face.
Time stopped. I could feel my dad’s love for me. He didn’t care about the missed kick. He didn’t care about the loss. He only cared about being with his boy.
Having my failure met with love changed me. My tears of sadness became tears of joy. I knew that I was loved even in the middle of my worst moment.
I have never forgotten it.
Looking back, I believe God used my dad to show me what his love is like. A love that doesn’t change based on success or failure. A love that invites us to come close, especially when we feel like we’ve blown it.
God is like that, standing on the sidelines, waiting for us to come to him even during our worst moments. Our relationship with him is secure, not because of what we do, but because of his character as a loving Father.
And the cross of Christ is the ultimate proof that this is true.
The gospel is not for the proud or the perfect, but for the humble, for those who recognize they need him. That night long ago, I needed my dad, and through him, I experienced my heavenly Father.
Though I do not want to fail, I will. And so will you. My hope is that when we do, we fail into the arms of our Father. That we would not just know about his love but truly experience it and be transformed.
Thanks, Dad. You reflected the heart of the Father when I needed it most.
“See how very much our Father loves us, for he calls us his children, and that is what we are!”
1 John 3:1 (NLT)
On this Father’s Day, I’m grateful for dads who anchor their children in the love of God—especially those who don’t just talk about God’s love but actually help their kids experience it.
There was a time early in my life when my dad showed me what God’s love feels like, and I walked away changed.
It was my junior year of high school, and I was playing football for the first time. During my freshman and sophomore years, I watched from a distance. I saw the camaraderie, the excitement of game day, and the pride after wins. Most of all, I listened as the players talked about winning a state championship. Before long, I believed it would happen too, and I wanted to be part of it.
So that summer, I joined the team.
I didn’t play much that year. When I did get in the game, I was usually confused and learning on the fly. But I loved playing defense. It was simple, aggressive, and fun. I had a couple of exciting moments, like breaking up a long pass to stop a comeback. But most of the time, I stood on the sideline and served as a cheerleader wearing shoulder pads.
I did have one consistent role: kicking extra points and field goals. With my soccer background, I was reliable enough, and for most of the season, none of the kicks really mattered. We had a good team and were winning our games comfortably.
As the season progressed, a state championship suddenly felt within reach. After we won our district and sectional games, only three teams stood in our way.
We traveled to a small rural town for the quarterfinal game. As our bus rolled in, I noticed signs on restaurants and stores saying, “Closed for the Game.” The whole town had shut down. Thousands packed the stands, and people stood on cars just to watch. This wasn’t just another high school football game.
From the opening kickoff, it was intense. For the first time in the playoffs, we were challenged. It soon became a defensive battle. In the second quarter, one of our starting safeties was pulled. To my surprise, I was sent onto the field.
Determined to make an impact, I chased every ball I could. Toward the end of the half, I dove after a pass—interception! My first ever. My teammates erupted as we headed into halftime tied 7–7. I had never felt more alive.
The second half was just as tight. Neither team could score. At the end of regulation, the score was still 7–7.
Overtime.
In overtime, we got the ball first. They stopped us three plays in a row. My coach turned to me and said, “Get in there and kick the field goal.”
Suddenly, the game rested on me. I jogged onto the field, trying to treat it like any other kick. But it wasn’t. This one mattered. Everything we had worked for was on the line.
I marked my steps and waited for the hike. The snap was good. The hold was clean. I kicked.
Immediately, I knew I had kicked it too low. A defender’s hand shot up and blocked it.
My heart sank.
I stayed on the field for defense, trying to pull myself together. We held them for three downs. Then their kicker came out. His kick sailed through the uprights.
Game over. We lost.
Never in my life have I felt like a bigger failure than right then and there. Our dream of a state championship was gone, and I believed it was my fault. I had let my teammates down. The seniors. The fans. Our school. Our city.
As I walked off the field, I didn’t want anyone to see me. I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. I kept my helmet on because I could feel the tears coming.
As I approached the sideline, I saw my dad.
He was standing there, waiting, eyes locked on me. He didn’t talk to anyone else coming off the field. He was focused only on his son.
I knew exactly where I was going. I crossed the sideline, dropped my helmet, and buried my head in his chest, tears streaming down my face.
Time stopped. I could feel my dad’s love for me. He didn’t care about the missed kick. He didn’t care about the loss. He only cared about being with his boy.
Having my failure met with love changed me. My tears of sadness became tears of joy. I knew that I was loved even in the middle of my worst moment.
I have never forgotten it.
Looking back, I believe God used my dad to show me what his love is like. A love that doesn’t change based on success or failure. A love that invites us to come close, especially when we feel like we’ve blown it.
God is like that, standing on the sidelines, waiting for us to come to him even during our worst moments. Our relationship with him is secure, not because of what we do, but because of his character as a loving Father.
And the cross of Christ is the ultimate proof that this is true.
The gospel is not for the proud or the perfect, but for the humble, for those who recognize they need him. That night long ago, I needed my dad, and through him, I experienced my heavenly Father.
Though I do not want to fail, I will. And so will you. My hope is that when we do, we fail into the arms of our Father. That we would not just know about his love but truly experience it and be transformed.
Thanks, Dad. You reflected the heart of the Father when I needed it most.
Tambika and the Shield of Wisdom
As long as she’s been alive, Tambika’s tribe, the Hehe, has lived in conflict. She longs to be a leader who stands up for her people, but her desire for vengeance endangers her destiny. When Tambika and her friends break into the German armory to take back their tribe’s silver, she attacks a young soldier and flees the scene. As she escapes into the bush, Tambika sees a cosmic light that fills the sky and transports her to another realm, the land of Glideon.
