Father’s day has officially come and gone…in fact it has been over a month now. After posting about my mom, I know that you were waiting for my post, in fact, many of you emailed to ask me about my lack there of.

Thoughts of my dad are hard to put into words at all, because my dad is overwhelming to me. Let me explain. From the beginning of my life…my dad was there. (don’t roll your eyes at my cheesy obvious statement, let me explain)

My dad announced my coming at his college graduation.
My dad wasn’t upset when they told him I was a girl, even though I was supposed to be a boy.
My dad was who I ran to when I got in trouble – not that I got in less trouble, it just didn’t seem so bad when he was right there.
My dad took me fishing for the 1st time with my own little pole and rod.
My dad killed a snake coming out of the water with a big rock at the same fishing hole. (we never went fishing again without a pistol).
My dad was there my 1st day of kindergarten.
My dad was there when I learned how to ride a two-wheel bicycle…and when I fell down, he picked me up again.
My dad was there when I knelt by the couch in our living room and gave my heart to Jesus.
My dad was there when I was baptised.
My dad was there praying over me when he gave his life to missions….this was the 1st time I remember my dad crying.
My dad was there when I said good-bye to grandparents and friends and got on a HUGE plane and headed for Africa – a place he said he would never go – then God took him there and now he says he will never leave.
My dad was there when I saw Africa for the 1st time, we saw giraffes running on the ground as we were circling to land.
I heard my dad cry our 1st night in Africa wondering what in the world we were doing there….but the next morning he assured me it was going to be the best home we had ever had…and it was.

My dad is in every single memory that I have of Africa…..
…..the brave warrior who gave commentary on baby lions.
…..the unassuming pastor who led hundreds of African’s to the saving love of Jesus.
…..the adventurous eater who had a chicken head placed in front of him…and who taught me how to graciously say “no” without insulting a culture.
…..the carpenter man, who could create anything he put his mind to.
…..the farmer boy, who taught me how to love all living things. (except snakes!)
…..the patient man, who learned to drink coffee and milky tea and build one relationship after another while quietly influencing Christ into the lives of others.
…..the loving man, who hurt with me when I hurt, and laughed with me when I laughed, who danced the “roger rabbit” with me when everyone else in the room thought I just looked silly.
…..the man in the moon who taught me how to look at the African sky and see life.
…..the man on the street who taught me how to look at a person and see a soul.
…..the man of compassion who gave bread and cookies to begger children.
…..the man who could have been the Mayor of Eldoret, Kenya.
….the modest man who was just as comfortable in a mud hut in a village as he was in the home of the President’s brother.
…..the sacrificing man who put his children’s happiness before his own.
…..the sports man who won the “piga mingi” award with grace and style.
…..the protecting man, whose only act of road rage was in protection of his children.
…..the funny man, who hates to be laughed at.
…..the encouraging man who taught me how to pursue my dreams no matter what others said.
…..the humble man who when he had done wrong was big enough to confess it and ask for forgiveness.

My dad was there when I got on the plane to return to the US, leaving my home, my passion, my heartbeat. He held my hand and promised it would be ok.
My dad was there when after 1 1/2 years of excrutiating pain that was bible college, I came home from BBC feeling a failure…he told me I wasn’t….I believed him.
My dad was there when I made Abilene home.
He put me in my 1st apartment and then did one of the hardest things he ever had to do (or so he says) he drove away and left me there to be a young adult.
My dad sent me money, even when I didn’t want to have to need it.
My dad was on the phone when I had good news and when I had bad.
My dad prayed at my graduation ceremony.
My dad told me he was proud of me. There is no greater feeling.

My dad prays for me daily, his quiet influence leads my life in ways that he will never know. He is a gift I can never hope to repay.

My gift of writing you all seem to love….yep that’s from my dad.

You see, I look like him, I act like him…..he is intricately woven into my life so much that when it comes to saying “Hey this is my dad and he is great….words just seem inadequate.”
But he is MY DAD! He is Great! I am so honored and blessed that when God looked down to find a family to put me in, Steve Workman was the man he chose to be my father.

I love you, dad!

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