How Sweet the Sound
Dad shuffled towards the microphone, hands in pockets, nerves beating through his chest. As the drinks slowed down and the dance-floor came to a standstill, my chest tightened with second-hand anxiety. Is Dad okay? What stories will he share? Will my friends understand his English?
It was the weekend of my 21st birthday and I had booked out a bar to celebrate. The room was filled with friends from all walks of life, but my Dad was an honoured guest. We had recently experienced the miracle of rebirth and reconciliation, and we were excited to share the story with anyone who would listen.
My entrance into adulthood wasn’t pretty. Intoxicated by quick love and cheap thrills, my birthdays became a yearly reminder of my refusal to grow up. Flirting with forbidden fruit, I stubbornly believed that playing with fire would keep my soul alive, but I soon learned the consequences of dancing too close to flame.
With my heart singed and broken, I walked through church doors in a desperate search for answers and found myself in the shoes of the Adulterous Woman. Standing in the spotlight for all the wrong reasons, she was deserving of condemnation, yet shielded by Mercy:
“Then neither do I condemn you,” Jesus declared. “Go now and leave your life of sin.” (John 8:11)
The Saviour’s words left me in awe. The only One qualified to throw sticks and stones was nailed to the tree in my place. Who was I to deserve such forgiveness? To this day I cannot answer. That’s the beauty of saving grace—it’s a gift that I did not earn and a favour that I cannot lose.
With my heart overflowing with praise, I sobered up to a life of love and self-control. Following the Saviour felt natural and joyful, until I discovered the calling to forgive my enemies—starting with my dad. How could I, when I had spent my life running away from the pain?
With brute strength, I tried to obey the Law with the religion of Do Better, but I failed over and over with bitterness and resentment. Dad doesn’t deserve it. Why do I have to be the bigger person? He should say “sorry” first! My head knew the way of love but my heart refused to comply.
Again and again, I submitted myself to the yolk of Do Better, only to feel crushed by its weight and pressure. That’s the problem with religion—the solution is rooted in pride and boasting in self-sufficiency. How do I leave my life of sin? There had to be a better way—a power both possible and perfected in human weakness. And there I found it in the Lord’s prayer: Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.
Instead of telling myself to Do Better, I asked God to forgive my inability. I laid bare my anger and resentment, stubbornness and pride. The Lord’s prayer guided me to pray daily for forgiveness so that the gospel of grace could take root in my heart. I wasn’t expected to earn God’s favour, so why am I demanding my dad to earn mine?
Humbled again by the truth of amazing grace, my heart began to soften with mercy and compassion. I felt vulnerable. I feared rejection. But I trusted that this was the way of Love and Life. Soon I started to see my dad in the same way that God saw me: a sinner in need of grace. Forgive as I have been forgiven—the good work prepared in advance for me to do.
So, over breakfast on Saturdays I began to show my Dad my new faith and foundations. I listened to his stories, and he opened his mind to mine. And soon, Dad and I sowed tears before the cross, agreeing to move forward hand-in-hand, even if we couldn’t always see eye-to-eye.
Standing in the spotlight, Dad continued to shuffle nervously as the room held its breath. Sharing formalities in a second language is already a challenge, but how was he meant to describe a daughter that he had just begun to know? He stopped my thoughts with a reassuring smile, charming my guests with his boyish dimples.
“There is a song called Amazing Grace,” my dad voiced in his best Australian accent, “and it will always remind me of Heidi. It is my favourite song.”
Without saying another word, he stepped away from the stage.
My soul sighed with relief.
Did it matter that Dad’s speech was void of nostalgic in-jokes? Was I disappointed that he summed up two decades with only two brief sentences? Not at all. His words were few but sweet in sound, reminding me of our Saturdays together—the taste of bacon and eggs, the scent of rustic paper Bibles, and the anticipation of reconciliation as we leaned into the Saviour’s love.
Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost
But now I’m found
Was blind but now I see.
