Fatherhood which honors God the Father

Some of this narrative I have told already. Bridger Cotton Mill stood at one end of our street near the railroad tracks, and New Light Free Will Baptist stood at the other. Mama and Daddy worked in the cotton mill, and the three of us walked to New Light Baptist on Sunday mornings to worship the Lord. Until I started to school, the places I went to were the company store at one end of the mill with Mama for groceries and a block of ice on Saturdays, and on Sundays to New Light Baptist for preaching services with Mama and Daddy, except for brief visits to Miss Delphie Carter’s house across the street, and to a few other neighbors’ houses, with occasional, longer visits to see my grandparents, both sets of them, here on the Bladen lakes side of the Cape Fear. I had not yet spent any time anywhere without my parents.

When I began school in 1944, a few weeks before my sixth birthday, I was overwhelmed with separation anxiety, though no one called it that, back then. I wept quietly some part of every day at school, for three weeks. And then, one day when we had lined up to go home and I reached my teacher standing in the doorway, she abruptly thrust out her hands and popped both my cheeks, exclaiming in frustration, “If you don’t stop crying, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you!”

I wet her shoes, and drenched my socks and shoes. Though her quick slaps had not hurt me, they had terrified me. I fled to the bathroom and hid myself in one of the stalls, until she knocked on the door and instructed me to come out and hurry to the bus before it left me.

Though I cannot remember anything that I told my mama and daddy, or anything either of them said to me about it, what happened the next day has been imprinted lifelong in my memory.

Daddy walked to school with me. I don’t recall anything he might have said as we walked the half mile from the cotton mill village to town; and then on past the impressive Bridger Company offices and department store building, past the well-to-do families’ stately houses, and past the First Baptist Church with its surprising and inspiring stained glass window of Jesus the Good Shepherd. As little as I was, I am sure that I noticed that beautiful window.

When we reached the school, Daddy allowed me to wait outside the open door of the classroom, as he entered the room and, unannounced and without introduction or greeting, said to my teacher, “Elizabeth told me that you slapped her yesterday. Did you do that?”

My surprised teacher hurriedly blurted, “Oh, no! I just tapped her cheeks and asked her not to cry anymore.”. I could hear her outside the door.

My father responded, “I’m glad you told me that you didn’t slap her, because I had decided that if you said that you had, I was going to slap you, too.” That was too much, despite the lifelong confidence his embolding defense gave to me.

But this was right. He concluded, “Elizabeth will not be coming back to this school this year.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the classroom, grabbed my hand tightly, and we left the school, headed back home to the cotton mill hill. I did not go back to school that year. But the next fall of 1945, I returned to another first grade teacher’s classroom and didn’t weep a single tear. The hurt lingered, but perhaps my first teacher had suffered extreme anxiety concerning a loved one or friend on the battlefield in Europe; the world was at war then.

Professor Richard Hester, retired Professor Emeritus of Pastoral Care at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary, has taught that the family is “the cradle of theology,” where first lessons about God are nurtured and learned, and first knowledge of God the Father is instilled by the father in the family.

In my family, I learned early that God takes my hand and walks with me, and beside me. And I learned that God my Father plans a way forward, protecting and sustaining me, removing fear, and nurturing confidence and assurance. I learned then, and trust now, that God the Spirit will not forsake me to face my challenges alone, without my Father’s strong Hand holding tightly to mine. Thank You, Lord! At home and at church, I learned that “Jesus loves me; this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” Eternal truths were formed and instilled in me in the earliest years of my life. Those truths are encapsulated in my story.

The Rev. Lalon Barnes, Jr., father of our three children, gave to each one of them, to our two daughters and to our only son, their first, strong, and true image of God the Father. In so doing, he honored God’s unfailing Providence and abiding Love through the love, provision, example, and guidance, he provided his children as they grew to adulthood in our family. Blessed are those children whose father stands on Sunday mornings in the sacred pulpit and proclaims the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ in their hearing and presence. That was the inimitable blessing which our daughters and son received through their earthly father’s obedient and unflagging commitment to his calling to preach the Gospel.

Glory to God the Father!

Happy Father’s Day on Sunday!

Thanks be to God.