Remembering the Lessons My Father Taught Me

As I wrestled with it, I couldn’t help but think back to the years before I met my husband, when my dad helped me feed the animals. He taught me how to build habitats, drive the truck, back up trailers, and solve problems with whatever tools were on hand.

But the greatest lesson he ever taught me wasn’t mechanical.

It was the importance of showing up.

My father was a hardworking man — a truck driver gone all week and home only on weekends. His time was limited, but he always made room to help me. He showed up tired. He showed up busy. He showed up even when it would’ve been easier not to.

And because of him, I learned what it looks like to be steady and dependable for the people you love.

That lesson shaped me more than I realized. It shaped what I valued. It shaped what I recognized. It shaped the kind of man I eventually married — someone who provides for his family, someone who shows up in the hard moments without needing recognition.

I was blessed with a long line of men — my father, grandfather, great‑grandfather, uncle — who lived out their responsibilities with humility and purpose. Their example taught me what faithful presence looks like.

When Dependable People Stop Asking for Help

But there’s another side to people like that.

When someone is always expected to do the hard things, they can be taken for granted. After years of carrying the load, they stop asking for help. Not because they’re proud — but because they’ve learned no one will show up for them the way they show up for others.

That realization hit me yesterday as I stood in the mud, praying (and maybe muttering a few choice words) while trying to free that stubborn trailer.

Help Arrives in an Unexpected Way

And then I remembered: I wasn’t actually alone.

My husband couldn’t lift, but he could drive. And with the precision he’s known for, he backed the truck into a tight space and got it close enough for me to hook the safety chain. Together — each doing what we could — we pulled the trailer free.

Later, when I had to unload a heavy, egg‑shaped round bale, I struggled again. I pushed. I pulled. Nothing. Then I remembered how, after my father became bedridden, I had to unload hay alone. I often used a block of wood to wedge under the bale so I could rest between attempts.

And there my husband was again — helping me with the block of wood until the bale finally rolled free.

The horses were fed. My headache could finally rest.

The Right Kind of Pride

I could have told this story without mentioning my husband. I could have painted myself as some She‑Ra farm warrior woman who conquered the impossible. Could I have done it alone? Maybe. But pride that refuses help often leads to injury, frustration, and unnecessary struggle.

So is it wrong to take pride in your work?

Not when it’s the right kind of pride.

Scripture warns against pride that exalts self — the kind that boasts, belittles, or refuses correction. But there is another kind of pride: the pride that comes from purpose, from stewardship, from doing the work God has placed in your hands.

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord…”  

— Colossians 3:23

My father lived that. He provided for his family. He showed up. He carried his responsibilities with humility and strength. And there was a holy pride in that — the kind rooted in obedience, not ego.

Scripture also speaks clearly about the sacred role of provision:

“But if anyone does not provide for his relatives… he has denied the faith.”  

— 1 Timothy 5:8

Provision isn’t just financial. It’s presence. It’s steadiness. It’s leadership. It’s doing the hard things because others depend on you.

Living Out Our Roles With Purpose

And when each person in a family embraces their God‑given strengths and responsibilities, the home becomes balanced, peaceful, and whole.

I may not be able to do everything my husband does — and that’s okay. But I can offer help where I’m strong. I can lighten his load in ways that matter. I can show up for him the way my father showed up for me.

Sometimes that looks like lifting hay. Sometimes it looks like a warm meal after a long day. Not because “a woman’s place is in the kitchen,” but because humility recognizes where we can serve — and joyfully does it.

That’s the kind of pride God honors.

The pride that comes from purpose.

The pride that comes from showing up.

The pride that comes from living the roles He designed — not as chains, but as anchors.

And yesterday, in the mud and the mess and the headache and the hay, God reminded me of that truth all over again.