I’ve said to my sons they are far better fathers to their little ones than I was to them. I’m a little grateful that they argue the point, but I stand my ground.

For one thing, they’re home more than I was. Ask any pastor. The evening meetings at church are bad enough, but add to that the out-of-town trips to speak in other churches, denominational appointments, conventions, mission assignments, and–well, you get the point. I look back to those days 30 years ago with regret that I was not there more than I was.

However, without engaging in an autopsy here–and punishing myself too severely–I will admit I did a few things right.

Every parent makes mistakes. I wouldn’t be surprised if even James and Shirley Dobson–the world’s greatest authorities on how to raise kids–look back to mistakes they made in raising Ryan and Danae.

If we wanted to grovel in regret and self-pity,we each have done enough wrong to supply plenty of material. But let’s not. Let’s focus for a moment on things we did right.

The only reason I mention this here is to “put a bug” in the ear of some parents who read this.

I remember once when we were working in the yard at our home in Columbus, Mississippi. Neil was probably 15 and was running the mower. Marty would have been 12 and was raking leaves. Carla (we called her “Jinoke,” her Korean name, at the time) was 9 and was carrying sticks to a pile. I was doing something, pruning hedges or something. It was Saturday, a lovely fall day, and I was reveling in the experience.

Marty, however, was not enjoying the experience. He walked over to me and said, “Dad, why are we having to do all this work?”

My first thought was to tell him to quit shirking and get back to his job. But I decided it was a fair question and needed an answer.

“Marty,” I said, “we’re out here working for three reasons.” Why three? I have no idea. Maybe because I’m a preacher and we do seem to like our three points. The number just popped into my head.

“First, it makes the yard look better. Secondly, it’s good for a father and his children to work together. And third, it’s just fun.”

He stared at me a moment, then said, “Dad, you’re weird. Did you know that?”

We laughed for the next five minutes. It’s good to be weird like that.

When Neil was 10 or 12, he and I spent weeks studying Proverbs every day and even made a notebook on our findings. Since that was over 30 years ago, I have almost no memories of any details and doubt if he remembers either.

However, the object is not necessarily to remember. The object is to grow up and mature. It’s like eating your mama’s cooking; your goal is not to recall all those meals. The point is to grow big and strong.

When the boys were small, and before their sister joined our family, we had a nighttime routine that meant a lot to me. I would go into their room and lie in one of their beds. The boys would lie on each side of me, under my arms, and I would tell them stories. The stories were made-up tales of certain woodland animals. And, to no one’s surprise, the stories always carried morals. Afterwards, we each prayed and I kissed them goodnight.

I recall so vividly the way we handed out their allowance. We sat down with them and made a list of tasks they had to have accomplished on Friday evening before I doled out the few bucks. The list was taped to the back of their bedroom door where only they could see it. After supper, they had to pass an inspection before receiving their money.

I wasn’t a drill sergeant, but sometimes was strict, just to keep them on their toes. “I see dust under your bed.” “Pick up those clothes on the floor of your closet.” “Straighten the books in your bookcase.” I’d walk out and a few minutes later, they would summon me to recheck things.

My sons seem to me–I’m not their wives and they are the authorities on these things–to be hands-on fathers. They work in the yard, they plant flowers, they take the kids to ball games and sometimes fishing, they attend the school and church functions. When Neil arrives home in the evenings (he lives a mile from me, while Marty lives four states away, so I see this in Neil’s family), his children meet him at the door to hug and kiss him. Even the fourteen-old-son gets up and gives his dad a hug. That pleases me as much as it does Neil.

At the moment I’m typing this, I’m at the home of a first-cousin, Mike Kilgore, in the community of Pike Road, Alabama. His daughter Kelly and her husband Tommy stopped by last night. They have three young sons, the oldest being 6 and the youngest nearly 2. (The boys are Thomas, Samuel, and James.) Mike tells me that Tommy goes into their rooms at night and prays over each of the boys. “In fact,” he adds, “he was earnestly in prayer for these boys before they were born.”

I said something to Kelly and Tommy about praying for the girls whom these boys will eventually marry and bring into the family. They said, “Oh, we’ve been doing that for some time now.”

This family belongs to Vaughan Forest Baptist Church in Montgomery. They’re deeply involved in its programs and ministries.

My boys and their families belong to Idlewild Baptist Church near Charlotte, NC, and the First Baptist Church of Kenner, LA. My daughter and her family are in Heritage Free Will Baptist Church of Laconia, NH. Every day of my life I pray for Keith, Mike, and Joel, the pastors of these three congregations.

I’m feeling optimistic about the next generation of our family. They are doing some things right.

And they are praying.