I went through a box of sports memorabilia (because that’s what has-beens do) recently . . . I couldn’t find the thing I was looking for. I thought I’d saved a game tape (remember VHS tapes?) from a specific game from my senior year of high school. I’m trying to keep a box of things to share with Lucas and Finn as they get older. Al Bundy would be so proud.

You know, so that when Lucas and Finn are teens I can say, “Look, your dad is chubby and bald but he used to have game.” Luckily my friend (and former rival, Dave Crosson) made a DVD copy and sent me the game I’d been searching for.

I’m 32 years old. In 1997 I was 18. A huge part of me (as Kara will attest) is still 18.

In March of 1997 I played one of the biggest games of my life (to that point)–against one of our biggest rivals. We were the two best teams on the East Side of the Metro Detroit Area. I watched the game over the weekend and remembered the smell of the gym, the vibe, the whistle’s reverberation, the names of faces in the crowd I’d long forgotten. It was a dramatic game with so many interesting twists and turns, it literally was a toss up who should have won that game. In fact, after watching the tape we didn’t so much win. We just happened to be in the lead when time expired. Had one more minute been added to the clock, we could have lost by 5 or 10. Easily

But something grabbed me this time. Something totally unexpected and unanticipated. And it had nothing to do with the game or basketball or sports in general.

Whoever filmed the tape for my rival’s school (yes–we won the game on the road) let the tape run after the game had ended. About 20 seconds after the game, I noticed a man moving from the top of the bleachers in the packed gym.

It was my dad. Watching the film, you only see the back of his head. But it’s my dad. For sure. When it’s your dad, you just know it. You know the way he moves, his posture.

My dad was running down to the court to hug me. It should be noted that my mother was probably already down there! But there’s something deep about the bond between father and son. Something mysterious. Something profound.

Sitting in my living room, almost 15 years later, it hit me that this moment was a parable of my life with my father. Not only was he always there, always present, he always ran to me.

I had to get stitches when I was 2 and 5. He was there. He came to me.

When I fell off my bike (the first of many) he was there.

When I lied he ran to me to confront and forgive.

How many times, did he get off work, take me to the park, rebound for me in the driveway?

When I was in high school he took me, every week, to breakfast to talk about life, sports.

When I was in college he made time, each week. Like clockwork, he never wavered.

When I lived in Nashville he came to me. Abilene, now Nashville again.

Always coming to me. Always running with love, body, speech, action.

I know some of you have no father or are enduring a poor relationship with your father. For that I’m truly sorry. I hope this doesn’t cause more pain for you. But, if you’ve been blessed with children, perhaps you get to rewrite the generational cycle.

When Jesus taught about the heart of God, he didn’t just talk about a God who showed up. He talked about a God who runs (Lk 15–which is, of course, a microcosm of exactly what Jesus was doing in his own life).  I don’t have to look up at the sky and wonder “What does that look like–for God to run?” I just look at my dad.

Who ran.

Who runs.

Who keeps coming. All the time. No matter what.

It looks like another typical scene. Packed high school gym, two thousand people. Half of them, happy. Half of them, upset.

But if you look closer, there’s a dad running. He’s running towards one of his sons.

And it’s beautiful.