Last month my wife was culling through some old pictures in preparation for our 50th anniversary celebration.  She came across a picture of me when I was nine or ten years old, standing in front of my dad’s ’48 Nash Rambler.

A young Bob Russell in front of a 1948 Nash Rambler

A young Bob Russell in front of a 1948 Nash Rambler

My mind immediately raced back to an incident I’ve often used as a sermon illustration.  It’s a tribute to my dad who demonstrated to me the right balance between grace and truth.

One Christmas Eve, as our family was driving home from church, I was seated in the back seat by the left door.  To understand the danger of this incident one needs to be aware that the rear doors of the ’48 Rambler opened the exact opposite of almost every car ever manufactured – they opened right into the wind.  Later someone dubbed them, “Suicide doors” for an obvious reason.

As we were driving home that night I kept looking at the door handle and wondering what would happen if a person flicked that door handle, just a little.  I was normally an obedient, common-sense child but apparently I was intrigued by aerodynamics as a child and my curiosity got the best of me and impulsively I pulled on the handle.

Of course the wind caught that door instantly and there was, “a sound as of a rushing mighty wind” as the car door was instantly thrust wide-open into oncoming traffic.  I dove for the floor and my dad screeched to a halt.  In a panic my mother turned around and counted noses (five children at the time) and screamed, “Oh, where’s Bobby?  Where’s Bobby?”

My two older sisters, responded with disgust, “Oh, mom, he’s all right.  He’s down here on the floor!”  My dad got out of the car, leaned against the automobile and took several deep breaths.  He got back inside and drove the rest of the way home without saying a word.  Naturally I concluded I was in deep trouble.

All the rest of the way home my sisters kept asking, “What kind of an idiot would pull open a car door when we’re going 55 miles per hour?  What’s wrong with you?”

When my dad pulled to a stop in the driveway I bolted out of the car, raced into the living room and stood by the Christmas tree for protection.  Maybe I thought it would help to remind my parents that it was Christmas and Jesus was full of grace.  I’ll never forget my dad stalking straight to me, grabbing me and giving me the biggest hug I can ever remember receiving from him.  He wouldn’t let go.  He kept repeating, “I’m sure glad you didn’t fall out of that car!”  I was glad too!

It’s always been easy for me to imagine a Heavenly Father who is full of grace.  I don’t have trouble picturing a God who can love and forgive me in spite of my sins and my immature behavior.  I owe what I consider a healthy understanding of the nature of God to an earthly Father who knew what it was to extend grace and mercy in my time of humiliation.

Thanks again, Dad.  Your consistent love and godly example still impact me though you went to be with the Heavenly Father twenty years ago.

 

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