My grandfather, affectionately referred to as PawPaw, spent most of his summer days on the tractor working in the fields. When I wasn’t sitting on his lap riding with him (pretending to be driving all by myself ), I could be found exploring, with endless curiosity, the far-reaching corners of the aforementioned farm. Skipping rocks across the pond, splashing in the creek, fishing, playing with black snakes, and riding my motorized dirt bike were some of my favorite pastimes. 

All was well in my boyhood world, and then the unthinkable would occur—the kind of tragedy that can only happen to an adventurous young boy: I’d break my fishing line, get my fishing hook stuck in some brush, experience a flat tire, stall out the dirt bike, or experience some other mishap that was typically the result of my youth-filled ignorance. There was only one solution to be sought for all these problems. In the inescapable silence that follows escapades interrupted, I would listen for the sound of the tractor. Once I had heard it, I would begin my trek in that direction. 

Across freshly plowed fields, I would walk until I had PawPaw in sight. Inevitably, as I continued to approach, PawPaw would spot me coming, as if he knew intuitively it was only a matter of time until some misadventure would bring me his way. Faithfully, he would slow the tractor down to a halt, and then unhurriedly step down from his Ford-made throne. 

Wasting no time, I would pour out the details of the latest the incident, pointing in the direction of my sorrows. PawPaw listened. My problems were never life threatening. They were petty at best. Yet, once I was finished, without another word or further question, he would head straightaway to the route I indicated. Shoulder slightly hunched over, he would eat up the ground with his characteristic long, slow, yet steady, stride. 

Once there, he would do whatever it took to right the wrong, fix the broken or mend the pain. Once everything was back as it should be (after twenty or thirty minutes, or sometimes even an hour or more), he would return to the tractor and proceed from where he had left off. 

Not once did he respond to my arrival with Let me do one more lap around the field or I must hurry and finish before the rain comes . . . before dinner . . . before dark. . . . 

Not once did I hear, This is kind of important. Can’t you find something else to play with for a little while? 

Never was there a I’ll be right there, the response typically given by adults merely to buy time in hopes that the child will become distracted with something else. There wasn’t even a grimace on his face or a grunt of irritation under his breath. His reaction was always the same. He looked down. He stopped. He stepped down and walked with me to the place of my need. 

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01.  Living God’s Love

I’ve discovered, some thirty years later, that these characteristics and responses are exceedingly rare across the landscape of humanity. But don’t be mistaken, there’s a greater lesson here than the sentimental memories of a patient, selfless display of a grandfather toward his grandson. These experiences bore the very image of God, the God of Deuteronomy 6:4–9, being impressed on the heart and life of a little boy. 

This was, and is, an image of God that to this day has served to shape how I understand and relate to my Father in Heaven. It’s an image that has also influenced how I endeavor to father my children and pastor those I come in contact on a weekly basis. 

This is a dimension of God’s image that I believe is in dire need of being resurrected in us today. Many in society view God as some sort of distant, impersonal cosmic force. Perhaps not consciously, many believe and are prone to live as though God is too busy to be bothered with our daily petty affairs. Others of us suppose He’s inclined to listen, but inwardly really don’t expect Him to move on our behalf.