F is for Father's Day
My paternal grandfather’s name was Dall. His father’s name was Leo. I never got to know Leo, because he died a few weeks after my dad was born. I do know a couple of stories about him, though.
When Dall was a little boy, Charles Lindbergh flew across the Atlantic in The Spirit of St. Louis. Later, the plane toured the United States (although I don’t know that Lindbergh toured with it). When the plane came to Salt Lake City, Leo took Dall to see it. When he saw it, Dall wanted to touch the wings of the plane. Leo wasn’t sure if this was allowed, but he held Dall up to touch the wings, anyway. Right after that, a policeman came around and got mad at him for letting his son touch the plane. “But it was too late, because we’d already done it,” my grandfather used to say, with a twinkle in his eye. (This story is sweet enough on its own, but it’s made better if you know that Dall grew up to be an airplane pilot and mechanic.)
The other story my grandfather used to tell was that when he was five years old, it was his job to milk the cow. He could get the pail out, put it under the cow (who was presumably mild-mannered), and milk her, but when he finished, the bucket would be too heavy to lift up to the shelf where it needed to go. So, when he finished milking the cow, Dall would go get his dad, who would put the pail of milk up on the shelf.
I like this story because it seems like a good metaphor for how God deals with us: He may give us tasks that He knows are impossible for us to accomplish, but He only asks us to do what we can, and then turn to Him for help with the rest.
Happy Father’s Day!