Father’s Day often brings to people a flood of memories—not all of them polished or perfect. But the ones that linger in my mind, do so, because they’re wrapped in grace. For me, some of the most vivid revolve around a truck, a young man trying to find his way, and a father who modeled what love and sacrifice look like.

Back in high school, right around the time I got my driver’s license, my dad bought a brand-new 1983 Ford Ranger pickup. Money was tight in our home. We didn’t often get new vehicles, and when we did, we drove them until the wheels fell off. But this truck just happened to show up at the same time I got my license.

What a sweet ride for a teenage boy! We were a two-car family, but since my mother was a stay-at-home mom, two to three times a week I  got to skip the school bus and drive that Ranger to school. I felt like the BMOC—Big Man on Campus. It was technically a family vehicle, but on those days, it felt like mine.

Fast forward a few years to the summer after my freshman year of college. Pam was still in high school, and we planned a double-date day trip with my sister and her fiancé to go tubing on the Delaware River. It was an awesome day—sunny, carefree, full of laughter.

But driving home that afternoon, tired and distracted, I came up over a rise—and there it was.

A Chrysler Laser, stopped in the middle of the road, waiting to make a left turn. I locked up the brakes—but it wasn’t enough.

WHAM! I plowed into the back of it. The front left fender was mashed, the grill destroyed, the bumper mangled, the hood hopelessly bent, headlights shattered.

There were no cell phones back then. After the police filed their report, I limped the truck to Pam’s house, dropped her off, and went home to face the music.

And here’s the beautiful part. My dad didn’t explode. He didn’t shame me. He just… absorbed it.

I didn’t have the money to fix it. I was scraping to afford college, and my parents were already helping pay that bill too.

My dad’s always one for a teachable moment. So, after pricing out what a body shop would charge to rebuild the front end, he decided we’d make a project of it and do it together.

But I couldn’t.

I think I helped him maybe once—but the shame and embarrassment of what I’d done kept me away. So, I just managed to never be “around” when he was working on it.

That summer, the truck sat in our open garage. My dad bought the parts and slowly cobbled it back together. I still remember waking up one Saturday morning to the sound of rhythmic banging. I looked out my window and saw my dad wrestling to deconstruct the front end.

And I remember how I felt—a mix of guilt, gratitude, and helplessness. My failure was being repaired—but not by me. It was being repaired for me.

His money.
His sweat.
His effort.

He disassembled the broken pieces and rebuilt what I had wrecked. And at no cost to me.

I drove that truck again, and every time I did, it was a silent, humble reminder of the forgiveness I had been shown—and the freedom I’d been given from a debt I couldn’t pay.

But that wasn’t the end.

Three years later, just before Pam and I got married, I was behind the wheel of that same truck again. I had my own car by then, but for some reason, I was driving the Ranger home after a Sunday night service at the little country church I was interning at—the same church where I would later serve as assistant pastor.

The winding Pennsylvania backroads were dark. Up ahead, a minivan slowed with its high beams on. I slowed too… and then immediately after it passed, I saw it. A large doe, standing right in the middle of my lane.

I swerved, missed the deer—and ran headlong into a telephone pole. I sat there in the pitch black in shock. Did that just happen? Maybe it’s not too bad… I stepped out and walked around the front.

Coolant poured out onto the ground and I knew the truck was done for.

I walked to a nearby house and asked to make a call.

As I stood in a stranger’s living room, my mom answered the phone.

“Can I talk to Dad?” I whispered.

He came on the line.

“Dad,” I said, choking back tears, “I wrecked the truck… again.”

And again—he bore it.
No yelling.
Just: “Are you OK?”
And: “Did anyone get hurt?”

Again, I had no means to pay. I was in seminary full-time, saving for a honeymoon, trying to furnish a condo for our soon-to-start life together. And for the second time, I was met not with judgment, but mercy.

Once more, I was forgiven and freed from a debt I couldn’t repay.

That truck is long gone. But I still carry the weight and wonder of what my dad did—not just because he repaired a vehicle, but because he modeled grace. He embodied the gospel—absorbing cost, offering restoration, never throwing it in my face.

That’s the kind of man my dad is.
And that’s the kind of man I strive to be.

In a world where anger, outrage, and self-interest dominate the headlines—where sacrifice is often seen as weakness and insensitivity gets rewarded—it’s easy to get swept along by the current. But there’s a better way. A way marked by quiet strength, undeserved grace, and costly compassion. That’s the path my dad chose, not because he was perfect, but because he was pointing to something greater. And maybe this Father’s Day, in a culture starving for mercy, it’s the kind of path more of us need to walk.

This Father’s Day, I’m thankful for a dad who didn’t just tell me what God is like—he showed me. Persevering. Strong. Generous. Steady. A fixer of broken things.

And in doing so, he pointed me to a heavenly Father, who meets us in the wreckage of our lives—and forgives and frees us from a debt we could never repay.

“As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him.” – Psalm 103:13