Over the past few years, and especially more recently, thanks to the way social media has kept us increasingly connected, I’ve received a lot of messages from people wanting to express their appreciation for my dad. These messages, although personal and specific, are also similarly thematic.

This one, although an amalgam, is faithful to any number of notes I’ve received, some from people I remember or vaguely remember, some from people I never knew.

It was not uncommon in these notes to hear the words:

Your dad is the reason I became a minister.

Your dad saved my marriage.

Your dad saved my ministry.

Your dad saved my life.

The next time I would see my dad, usually on the Tuesdays I would always spend with him at the lake, I would read him these messages. After I was done reading, he would often rub his hands together and smile and nod pensively and say, “Oh, that’s good. That’s good.”

In these times of mental decline, I don’t know if he fully contextually understood who the sender was or the circumstances from the past that compelled them to write to him and convey that depth of appreciation. But I do know this: he knew that it was good. Not that he had done something good, but that when we are in relationship, with God and with others, good things inevitably happen. My dad’s message was always that the good news always plays out best in relationships. Always in relationships.

The writer of Genesis tells us that at the end of each day of creation God looked around at the work that he’d done and saw that it was good. I think my dad did that a lot. He was always looking around, at the mountains, at the flowers, at the birds, and at the relationships forming and playing out all around him, and you could tell from the twinkle in his eyes what he was thinking. “Oh man, that’s good. That’s really good.”

The writer of Genesis also tells us that on the seventh day of creation God rested from the work he’d completed. On October 22, surrounded by family, my dad reached the seventh day. And although we’re going to miss him—a lot—that too is good.

When I was in high school I used to joke with my dad that he only had one sermon. And although it was a joke between us, I believed then, as I do now, that it is largely accurate. My dad had one message.

A few years ago there was a commissioning service in Colorado for the translation of the New Testament that my dad had completed. I was invited to say a few words. In preparation I couldn’t shake that thought that for his whole life my dad only had one sermon—one message.

So I wrote a poem.

This is called “The Message.”