As it was Father’s Day this last Sunday, it’s perhaps unsurprising that, nearly nine years after Dad died, I found myself thinking about him.
I was remembering the twinkle in his eye and his cheeky humour. His wonderful bedtime stories. Family games around the table. Roughhousing with my brothers. The practical skills he taught me, like decorating and DIY.
All of those memories are precious.
But as I reflected, I realised that what I miss most isn’t something Dad did. It’s how I felt around him.
Encouraged.
His greatest gift wasn’t simply teaching me how to do things. It was helping me believe that I could.
I think I managed to capture the twinkle in his eyes. The same eyes that looked at me with encouragement long before I realised what a gift that was.
It was 1987, and I had just passed my driving test. I was about to start training as a physiotherapist, so I borrowed Mum’s mustard-coloured Austin Maxi and drove into Bradford on my own. It was probably only fifteen miles, but it felt like a great adventure.
On the way home, I clipped a kerb on a hill, blew out a tyre, and very nearly hit a wall.
I was in complete panic.
There were no mobile phones back then, so eventually a family friend was tracked down and came to help. He changed the wheel and got everything sorted.
“Right,” he said. “You can head home now.”
But I was terrified.
“I can’t drive.”
My wise friend looked at me and said, “No. You need to drive home. But I’ll follow behind you. You’ll be safe.”
That was encouragement.
He didn’t do it for me. He didn’t shame me for being frightened. He didn’t dismiss my anxiety or tell me to pull myself together.
He simply stayed with me.
He believed I could do something that, in that moment, I didn’t believe I could do myself.
So I got back in the car and drove home.
Later that evening, Dad got home.
There was no fuss. No criticism. But no over-comforting either.
Instead, he said, “Well, love, if you’re old enough to drive, you’re old enough to know how to change a wheel.”
Then he took me straight outside and taught me how.
As it turns out, that has been a surprisingly useful skill over the years.
I think we sometimes assume encouragement is all about compliments, praise or reassurance.
And sometimes it is.
But often encouragement is something deeper.
It’s believing that somebody is capable.
It’s staying beside them while they try.
It’s teaching rather than rescuing.
It’s refusing to let fear have the final say.
As I thought about this, I realised that the word encourage literally means to put courage into someone.
One of the people most remembered for encouragement in the Bible was Barnabas. In fact, his nickname literally meant “Son of Encouragement”.
Can you imagine that?
Being so consistently encouraging that people simply start calling you that.
We often admire people for their intelligence, leadership, gifting or success.
Barnabas became known for encouragement.
What a legacy.
I wonder who comes to mind when you think about the people who have put courage into you.
Perhaps it was a parent.
Perhaps it was a teacher, coach, friend or neighbour.
Someone who believed in you, steadied you, challenged you or stood quietly behind you while you attempted something frightening.
As I reflected on this, I found myself remembering a much harder season of life.
Years ago, when I was having EMDR therapy to help process trauma, I was asked to imagine a safe person. To my surprise, I struggled.
Around that same time, my artwork was beginning to develop, and I often painted my little dog Rafiki speaking words of encouragement to me.
Looking back, I can see that something deeper was happening.
The encouraging voice wasn’t really coming from a dog.
It was my own voice, slowly learning to speak with more kindness.
Sometimes we need encouragement from other people.
Sometimes we need to borrow their voice for a while.
And gradually, with practice, we learn to speak those same words to ourselves.
When I think about all of this, I come back to Dad.
No, he wasn’t perfect.
None of us are.
But he gave me a gift that has lasted long beyond his lifetime.
He put courage into me.
And perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can give one another is to do the same.
To be the person who says:
“You can do this.”
“I’m staying beside you.”
“I believe in you.”
And sometimes, when it’s needed:
“Get back in the car.”
“I’ll follow you home.”
Who has put courage into you?
I’d love to hear about the people who have encouraged you along the way. Feel free to share in the comments.
Life can be complicated, but hope often arrives in small, ordinary moments. If you’d like these illustrated reflections delivered to your inbox, I’d be delighted to have you along for the journey.
Who has put courage into you? If someone came to mind as you were reading, perhaps share this post with them today.
What an inspiring writing! Thank you for sharing!!