Wait til Your Father gets Home

I had lunch with my mom the other day, something I try to do once a week. The topic of being a strict parent came up; "Dave, was I a strict mother?" I had to think for a moment before responding with the only experience I could remember of her being really upset with me.

I had just learned how to ride a bike, I was only allowed to ride within eyesight of the house; if I couldn't see the house, I was out of compliance. So I decided to ride three blocks away to my elementary school. On my way back I was met with my mom driving in her car looking for me. "Wait til your father gets home."

Dad gets home; mom and dad have a little pow-wow, then my dad tells me to go to my room. He gets the "wooden spoon" that's when we as kids knew to add an extra pair of undies or two, because the board of education was about to be employed. Then he says the classic line-"This is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you."

He hands me the spoon, and tells me he is going to take the punishment for me. I started crying, I knew I was supposed to get the whipping, not him. He insists, I tear more with each swat.

Last weekend was Easter, my dads decision to take my punishment was just a glimpse of what Jesus did for us, for me, for you.