The Strength to Be Gentle

It was Christmas Eve and a cold country night settled on our farm house. Miles from the main highway, that ran through the mountain rimmed valley, our family enjoyed a quiet evening in anticipation of Christmas.
From the clear black night, a knock was laid on the front door. We looked at each other with a start. In all my growing up, I've only heard a knock on that door a handful of times because, in the small farm community, folks drove into the yard and entered through the back door. This was obviously a stranger. My father went to the door and slowly opened it, we watched, curious. There was an ominous layer of the unknown, this could be anything from the best scenario to the worst.
A young man stood behind the storm-door. He explained that his family, a wife and small child, were in the car and he was almost out of gas. I don't know how he found us, but he had driven thirty miles from the last open gas station and had forty miles to go before he came to the next. He'd driven four or five miles off the main road, depending on the route, he drove down a gravel road and turned onto the narrow blacktop that ran past our home.
"Didn't you read the sign that said the next available gas station was seventy miles away?" my father asked. I was surprised by his tone and lack of sympathy. He went on to say something to the effect of, it's very cold out, the roads are empty, you've put your family in real danger. "I won't give you gas, but I will sell you enough to get to the next town," my father finished.
The young man spoke with humility and respect to my dad's authoritative tone.
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir. I have money, I would be grateful. Thank you so much."
"Just get your family to safety," my father said and he gave directions to get to gas pumps on our property. "I'll meet you down there."
The young man went into the freezing darkness. My father closed the door, opened the coat closet and pulled out a heavy winter coat. After slipping it on, he reached into the closet and pulled out a large revolver, tucked it into the jacket and as he zipped it up, said, "I'll be right back."
I asked if I could go along, but he said, "No."
I watched the headlights converge at the gas tank we used for farm vehicles. I remember thinking, I hope the stranger doesn't do anything stupid.
My father is a quiet, humble and giving man. It was moments like this that I realized his profound humility came from great strength, not weakness. He'd put this young man on notice that he had been careless with his obligation to protect his family.
The lost boy got enough gas to make it to the next station, but his encounter with a real man of strength gave him a lesson I imagine he won't soon forget.
I've been thinking about masculinity. When a small boy picks up a stick, it becomes a sword or a rifle or a light saber. It is the nature of a boy to think it, a weapon. I think it's harmful to squelch the aggressive nature of a little boy. Instead of telling them to stop, they're going to hurt themselves or someone else, can't we ask them what they're protecting? This aggression, this power, is the breeding ground of peace.
The reason we enjoy the grace of God, isn't because he's weak. We can live, unafraid of death. We can live with profound peace in our hearts. We can live to help others. We can live forgiven. We can do all of this because God is strong. We can face the tragedies of life with hope because God is strong.
I get tired of the male bashing stereotypes all around us, making men look like daft fools. Masculinity misdirected can be destructive, it can lead to murder and violence. However, that same power, directed well, protects. It creates safety. It builds bridges and hospitals. It loves deeply. It stands in the face of evil and turns it away. This kind of power is like a strong arm holding a sleeping child and will not let go. This kind of power stays. This kind of power is solid. You can count on it.
I grew up in a safe home because my father is strong. I live with great peace because my heavenly father is strong.