My Dad left us in 1968, when I was 6 years old. Before he left I have memories of fights, yelling, things thrown in anger. I have one particular memory of going to the drive-in, and some woman starting a fight with my Mom, reaching into the car to grab her while my Dad drove away, with my Mom rolling up the window on the woman’s arm.

I also have memories of my Dad throwing a baseball for me, throwing it so high I could barely make it out. I remember him teaching me to ride a bike. I remember riding on the gas tank of his old Triumph 650. Speaking of that Triumph, he lost it in a game of pool. People came and took it. Other people came and took all our living room furniture after another game. He really was good at pool. Unfortunately, he was only good for the first couple of drinks. After that he wasn’t very good, but he thought he was.

He was a good carpenter, and could fix a car better than anyone we knew, as long as he was sober. But he wasn’t sober very often. I remember him driving with his knees while he mixed a drink. He drank early, and often.

And so he left us. My Mom finally had enough, he met someone else, or maybe my Granddaddy ran him off. I don’t know. I remember though, that he would come get me every other weekend, and I would spend time at whatever house he was living at, with whoever he was living with at the time. I would sit on the living room sofa, looking out of the window, watching for him on those Saturday mornings. He was late sometimes. Sometimes he wouldn’t come. Then he never came. I rarely saw my Dad after I was about 8.

There was another man when I was 9. He became my Stepdad. He lasted about a year before leaving in the night, taking most of our things with him. I never saw him again.

My Dad would call every now and then, mostly drunk, and wanting money. Why he thought I had any I don’t know. He spent his time living with whoever would give him shelter until he wore out his welcome, living on the street, in and out of jail, wherever he could have a drink or get a meal. He was dealing drugs, drinking, hustling pool.

He would try to hustle me too. I remember after Lauren and Sarah were born, that he wanted to see his Grandchildren. I told him that if he could come sober, he could see them. He saw them once.

My dad was not a shining example of what a man should be.

In 1994 I went to a Promise Keepers conference in Atlanta. I had given my life to Jesus in 1992, when I was 30 years old. Until then, I am not proud to say I had taken a path somewhat similar to my Dad. I hustled pool, smoked, drank, ignored my responsibilities at my home, and was not on the road to being a good Dad myself. One day in 1992, after attempting in vain to quit smoking, I turned to God for help. He took my addiction away, and changed my life. That’s another story though.

The theme of that conference was “Reconciliation.” God really put my dad on my heart. I wanted to reconcile with my Dad. Problem was though, that I didn’t know where he was, or even if he was still alive. I hadn’t heard from or about him in a year or so. It took me over a year to find him. My cousin Jimmy called me one day to say he knew where my Dad was. He was alive, and living in Gadsden, Alabama. I called him and we talked a while. It was awkward. I wanted him to know the joy of Jesus, but he wanted no part of it.

I wrote him after that, telling him that I loved him. I told him I forgave him. I told him that God loved him. I told him that God had changed my life, forgiven me of everything I had ever done, and would do that same for him. I went out to see him. I found him living in a pecan grove in a pressboard shack. You could see through the walls. There was no water. Power was a drop cord stretched to the main house that belonged to a lady that had pity on him and let him live there in exchange for doing random odd jobs for her. He had an A/C unit on the floor, a toaster oven, and nothing else.

It broke my heart to see him there.

We talked on the phone every now and then. I would call the house, she would go get him, and let him talk for a few minutes on her phone. Then I got word that he was sick. He had been to the free clinic because he had trouble swallowing. Of course he waited too long to go. He had a tumor in his throat that was cancer. He went to the University of Alabama in Birmingham, where they removed his vocal chords, and tried to get the cancer. I spent 3 days at UAB, mostly in the waiting room, and his room. We would never talk on the phone again.

He moved back to Henry County to live with his brother while getting treatment with a doctor there. The treatments were not successful. He spent his last weeks in Southern Regional Hospital. I spent time there with him, doing my best to tell him about Jesus. The thought of my Dad dying without Jesus was a terrible thing. And he was dying.

One day I was there, and as I left I found Gary Eudy in the halls, visiting as he always did in his capacity as a minister for First Baptist of Jonesboro. I asked Gary if he had a few minutes to talk to my Dad. I waited outside while Gary prayed with my Dad, who that day accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior.

Five weeks later he was healed of his cancer as he left this world.

The point of all this is to say never give up. Never lose hope. No one is too far gone. When I get to Heaven one day I will see my Dad sober, cancer free, with a healthy body. What a glorious day that will be.