When I was growing up, Father’s Day wasn’t even invented yet – not to me anyway. And I probably would have resisted the idea of it had I known about it then. Not much to celebrate, I would’ve said.

So dead wrong I was.

The mental picture I have of my dad is not a clear portrait, all gleaming and ready to be hung on a wall. In my mind, it’s more like bits of mosaic lining up unevenly and in unequal pieces.

He could do amazing things with his hands. I remember one time, he brought home timber wood, and after several hours of sawing and hammering, a double-decker bed emerged. 

Then there was the time he came home with an accordion. I had never seen such a thing before; I was fascinated by the way it folded and the sounds my father could make on it.

Quite a few times, Dad returned much later than expected because he had taken the wrong bus – getting lost seems to run in my blood!

I realised that God has chosen him and my mum to be the ones to birth and raise me.

I remember we watched three things repeatedly: Hindi movies, nature documentaries, and wrestling. Thanks to my dad, I am adept at eating with my hands, have never let skin colour bother me, and can recognise David Attenborough’s voice anywhere.

My father loved the thrill of a good gamble; but he made humble bets. Each time he won, the house would fill with something. He also enjoyed smoking. As a teen, I self-righteously berated and made him feel guilty for constantly inflicting us with second-hand smoke.

If I’d loved my dad as a child, I do not remember it. I wish I did. I would have made music with him, learnt to build a thing or two, maybe got lost together on those bus rides. 

Perhaps I did not love him because we were too busy getting by. Or because I saw my mother struggling with her deep disappointments in life: She’d vowed not to marry someone who gambled, but her mother set her up with my dad. And a mother’s shattered dreams are shards that are best avoided.

Perhaps I did not love him because there was a sorry need for love in my own little heart.

Thankfully, at the age of eight, God became a reality for me. Among the many things I would learn and discover about Him, I found the father I wanted and needed in my heavenly Father. 

When I was old enough, God turned my attention back to my earthly father. It began with the mission all followers of Jesus embark on: Saving souls. My dad needed saving, that wasn’t difficult to see.

But in time, God showed me that my father would once again be His instrument – I needed to be saved from my lovelessness, especially towards my dad. It is a great irony that Dad’s cold, indifferent, cavalier attitude about God called forth the love of Christ in me. 

Patiently, God waited for me to grow up. And when He finally said, “Be a friend to your dad”, I said yes through flowing tears; a whole new capacity opened up within me. I saw how he was a hurt, unloved person in so many ways, and appreciated how much it must have taken for him to even be who he was.

I realised that God has chosen him and my mum to be the ones to birth and raise me.

I cannot recall how many times I managed to wish him “Happy Father’s Day” in the end, but I’m glad I got to say it at least once. 

In Malachi 4:6, it talks about God turning the hearts of children to their fathers. And you know what? God is always doing that. He is love; it’s what he does. 

It took me a long time to say “Happy Father’s Day” because I could not see what a gift my dad was, stuck as I was in what the “model father” should be. I overlooked the fact that he didn’t have a father who showed him how to father, and without Father God in his life, how was he to ever know?

Yet, in my father, there was the valour of a good man.

When he saw my mother thumbed down and abused by his mum after they got married, he courageously took her, their two pots, one bag of clothes and left in the middle of the night. 

When the children started coming, he worked hard as a coolie with his changkol (shovel). It was backbreaking and tempted by faster gains, his gambling habit grew. But it was always to help us live a little better. Buy us a toy or two. Eventually, he became a clerk at the shipyard, until that job was unjustly lost.

Whenever he didn’t have proper work, he worked at home. He cleaned and cooked. I still miss his best dish – pig’s tongue stewed with soya beans and onions. Sometimes we came home to handwritten messages that the water had been boiled and was safe to drink. 

He didn’t have much going for him in life, really. But he had an optimistic, can-survive demeanour. We probably got that from him too. Not to mention his linguistic ability. He didn’t have many opportunities, but God did give him an amazing wife. Together, they had nine children, and I am glad to be one of them.

When a man has given life his best shot, it is worth celebrating. And for Mr Ho, he gave being a dad a real good shot. He wasn’t able to supply us with plenty, but he made sure that the rice urn, sugar and salt were always there.

He may not have known how to egg us on to success, but he never held us back from pursuing our dreams and we could see his quiet pride at every graduation.

He never verbally told us he loved us, but neither did he ever demand love from us in return. He accepted gifts reluctantly and I’ll always remember how his sanguine self would go very quiet when attention was turned to him.

But God knows, he tried being the best father he could. And I thank God for opening my eyes to see it before it was all too late.

Now, Dad’s having a well-deserved rest (and probably a really good time) in heaven, exactly how he would have liked it. He is home, safe and free at last.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

This was first seen on Jenni’s blog and has been republished with permission.