Before the First Note

A day goes better when the heart is tuned before life starts playing its first note.

That was one of the greatest lessons my father taught me. Not through a lecture, but through the steady rhythm of his life.

Dad was a praying man, but prayer was not the whole song. It was more like the tuning fork. It set the pitch for everything else.

His faith shaped the way he loved, the way he served, the way he worried, the way he carried responsibility, and the way he cared for the people God had entrusted to him.

And he cared deeply.

Even after we were grown and had families of our own, Dad wanted to know how we were doing, what we were doing, where we were going, who was going with us, and when we would be back. He wanted to know we would be safe.

As an adult, I sometimes found those questions annoying and totally unnecessary. Looking back, now that my own children are grown and scattered all across the United States, I understand them differently. It wasn’t that he needed information. He needed peace of mind.

His heart was fully invested in his family.

He loved my mother dearly. He was nineteen when he married her, and she was only eighteen. Just two and a half weeks before my mother passed away, they celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary. Together they built a life that wasn’t always easy, but it was built on commitment. Other than his love for God and his church family, we were his world. His wife, children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren occupied a great deal of space in Dad’s heart.

That was both one of his greatest strengths and one of his greatest struggles. Because when you love that deeply, you don’t just celebrate deeply. You hurt deeply too.

Dad carried stress. He carried worry. He carried our burdens as though they were his own. When one of us was hurting, he hurt. When one of us was making poor choices, it weighed on him. When one of us faced difficulties, he often carried those concerns long after the conversation ended.

He wasn’t perfect.

There were times he lost patience. Times he lost his cool. Times disappointment showed. Times he spoke too quickly and later wished he hadn’t.

But as I grew older, I noticed something else.

I noticed his humility.

I noticed that as time passed, he wasn’t too proud to admit when he was wrong. I noticed that he became more thoughtful with his words. And on more than one occasion, I witnessed something that takes genuine strength: a father asking forgiveness.

That left an impression on me.

Anyone can appear strong when they’re right. It takes a different kind of strength to acknowledge when they’re not.

Perhaps that’s one reason I keep coming back to Isaiah 26:3, Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.”

I don’t believe that verse means God’s people never struggle, never worry, or never have moments of failure. My father certainly did. And I know without a doubt that I certainly do.

What I think it means is that peace is found in knowing where to return.

Dad knew where to return.

Again and again, through joys and disappointments, through worries and mistakes, through family struggles and personal burdens, he kept turning back toward God.

Not because he was perfect.
Because he knew he wasn’t.

And maybe that’s one of the greatest gifts a father can give his family.

Not just rules.
Not just provision.
Not just advice.

But the example of a life that knows where true north is, even after drifting a little off course.

Children don’t remember everything their parents say. They don’t remember every correction or every conversation. But they do remember the overall melody of a life.

When I think of my father today, that’s what I remember most.

Not perfection.
Not flawlessness.
Not a man who never stumbled.

I remember a man who loved God, loved his family, and kept bringing his heart back to the One who could tune it.

Father’s Day has a way of stirring up memories—some sweet, some tender, and some that still ache a little.

But today, I find myself grateful for the music my father’s life left behind.

A heart tuned toward God leaves a sound that keeps echoing long after the day is done.

If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.

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