My Dad

Gò0dNews for Life

My Dad

by Dean Draper

Two years have passed since my dad went home to his Heavenly Father. I find myself reflecting on his life, his influence on me and many others. It would be impossible, within the confines of an article, to capture his life adequately. Many knew him as Glenn Draper. I knew him as “Dad.”

I am reminded of the song, “Leader of The Band,” by the recording artist Dan Fogelberg, “My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man. I’m just a living legacy of the leader of the band.” No one can fill his shoes. When I watched my dad grow old, it was difficult to shake the image of the strong, determined, energetic man I grew up with. But I was able to reflect on a life truly lived. A man who never seemed to waste one moment.

When I was a boy, this larger-than-life character was superhuman to me. I didn’t need Batman or Superman; I had my father. Cape or no cape, he was all I needed when adolescence took its difficult turns. He represented my Heavenly Father. He was always there, always encouraging, never absent, never condemning. I still keep a simple reminder of that image. I have an old yearbook from 1976. When I flip through the pages, I come to a picture of me making a shot in an afternoon basketball game at my school. The bleachers are filled with moms, rooting their sons on. In that sea of women, there is one man, my dad, with his fist up in the air, as if he were shouting, “That’s my Boy!!” Why was he there? He should have been at work. He knew some things in life are more important than a career.

I never saw my dad raise his voice at my mom. I never wondered if he wouldn’t come home. At 6 p.m. sharp, the kitchen door always opened. He laid his briefcase down and hugged the love of his life. We held hands and prayed over every 8-course meal she prepared. Every Saturday, we were out playing football in our backyard. He was quarterback for both teams, yes, teams of freckle faced boys pretending to be NFL superstars. Once, a testy neighbor complained to my dad about the dirt patch that had become our backyard. All the grass was gone from endless football games. My dad told him, “I’m not raising grass, I’m raising men.” Preach it, Dad!

In 1975, my dad boarded a private jet to lead a music conference in Jekyll Island. Two disappointed boys stood by the runway and waved goodbye. Before the plane took off, the door unexpectedly opened. He bristled down the stairs, grabbed my brother and me, and off we flew to the beach with nothing but our church clothes on. What kind of a father does that?

It was easy for me to come to Christ at a young age. I saw Him shine through my dad. The Bible describes

our Heavenly Father as “A God of forgiveness, gracious and compassionate, slow to anger, abounding in lovingkindness.” I understood what the Bible meant when it says, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” My dad modeled those promises.

When dad’s health started to decline, he would call me almost every day just to talk. The crowds had stopped cheering, and he wasn’t galloping around the globe performing for Presidents and dignitaries. He just wanted to talk with his son. There were times I didn’t answer those calls because I was just too busy. There were times I cut those calls short. Boy, would I love just one more phone call, just to hear his voice.

At the end of dad’s life, he didn’t say much. His mind and body were fading. My hero became very human. Jesus was waiting on the other side, but I didn’t want him to leave. Just before he died, I grabbed his bruised hand and muttered, “I love you Dad.” His eyes remained closed, but he said his final words to me, words I never doubted my entire life. “I love you too, son.”