My Dad was a handyman. He was a native of an era in which things got repaired, not discarded. He used to say he could fix anything except a broken heart.

That was as close to boasting as I ever heard of him. He was humble, selfless, kind, and never one to blow his own horn . . . except about his one-and-only cooking specialty–sourdough pancakes. (But that’s another story.)

Dad’s ability to fix broken things got me once right between the eyes. I remember it clearly.

One day in junior high, my ugly brown eyeglasses (Buddy Holly-style) cracked in half at the bridge and clattered onto my desk. After the initial shock, I almost cheered. I HATED my glasses. But I needed them.

I carried my injured spectacles to my counselor’s office. He issued me a street pass labeled “Sick Glasses.”

I walked home in a quarrel of contemplation—half-hoping for a sleek new wire-rimmed pair of specs (John Lennon-style) and half-ashamed, knowing the expense would be a hardship to my family.

When Dad got home from work, he examined my broken glasses with an appraising eye. “I think I can fix these,” he declared, and disappeared into his workshop.

I waited in miserable anticipation.

My Dad was a practical man. The demands of fashion did not disturb him as they did me, a fourteen-year-old ’70s teenybopper. Oh, I knew he could fix my glasses, all right. I squirmed at the prospect of walking into school tomorrow with my glasses firmly fastened by an industrial-strength nut and bolt—right between my eyes. (Frankenstein-style!)

Dad emerged from his lair sooner than I expected. He handed me my restored specs. He had somehow reinforced the bridge with a small strip of transparent plexi-plastic, heated and molded, glued together, and sanded down smoothly. The repair was barely noticeable. It was an elegant job. (Naturally, he had cleaned the lenses as well.)

So I didn’t get my detested eyeglasses replaced, not for another couple years. But I learned something important.

My Dad understood the needs of his young daughter, even the vanity that I was ashamed to admit. He took charge of my dilemma and gave me his best effort . . . without one word of reproach to me for breaking my costly specs and inconveniencing him.

Thanks Dad!

Today’s blog honors my much-loved and deeply-missed Dad. I cherish this life-long memory: Dad’s voice offering family prayer and reading the scriptures aloud to his children.

August is Dad’s birthday month. Happy Birthday Dad! Till we meet again.

For we walk by faith, not by sight.  2 Corinthians 5:7

But he that is greatest among you shall be your servant.  Matthew 23:11