My Father and Psalm 127 (Coming of Age)

The picnic table was far from comfortable. The seat sagged slightly under my weight and the table surface was rough and uneven. I wanted to be lying down in my tent, just a few steps away. It was just a one man tent, only a few feet tall and lacking even the space to roll over, but I knew it would be far more comfortable than the bench I was sitting on.

My legs were aching. I had cycled over a hundred miles today and had pedaled my way four hundred miles in the past five days. Nothing seemed better than sliding into that tent and resting before the miles I would bike tomorrow. Looking around the table, I could see similar sentiments in all five faces. Yet here we were, pushing the exhaustion aside for just a few minutes to have a Bible study.

My dad and I on one of our training rides
(because you can't ride 800 mi without training!)

It was my father's turn to lead the group tonight, and he put his Bible softly on the table. Just a simple brown leather book, with a lone bookmark in it. I had seen it around my house a thousand times, but I didn't typically see my father reading it. He did and the scuffs along the binding and the fade of the silver edges attested to that, but it was usually early in the morning. Early enough that my brothers and I would still be asleep, the air would still be foggy, the grass would still be wet, and the world would be silent. The silence suited my father. He liked to think, not to talk. He was never very loud or boistrous, a far cry from my own personality.

Which is not to say he was nerdy. My father, forty something years old, had biked that four hundred miles too. And there was still another four hundred to go before we got back home. But this night, halfway along the trip, he sat quietly for a moment and scratched the stubble that four days of camping and biking can bring. And in that moment, he looked apprehensive and even shifted slightly in his seat. The man who had led Sunday School classes since before I was born, who could preach a sermon both thought provoking and amusing should not have been nervous about something this laid back.

Flipping to that lone bookmark, my father introduced it as his favorite Bible passage. It was Psalm 127, and he began to read aloud:

"Sons are a heritage from the Lord,
children a reward from him. 

Like arrows in the hands of a warrior
are sons born in one's youth. 

Blessed is the man
whose quiver is full of them.
They will not be put to shame
when they contend with their enemies in the gate."

I looked up and made eye contact with my dad. He was crying. But he kept talking through the tears about how blessed he was to have the sons he did. And by the end of it all, I was crying too.

Through my tears, the grass looked greener and the trees taller and my father looked more magnificent than he had ever looked before. I didn't feel tired any more. I had always known how much my dad loved me, never doubted it for a second. But to hear it in words, expressed eloquently and accompanied by tears meant so much more. He really loves me.