Dad was always preparing me for the next step in life. My grandmother taught me to play the piano, but Dad took over about the time I was 11 years old, teaching me improvisation and music theory. To him, the next step was for me to put it to work and actually write a song, using everything I knew. When I was 12, he told me to do just that.

My first song was really, really bad. But that opened the door for me. Songwriting became a process, not this big, mysterious, other-world thing that other people did. At the age of 17, I started doing it again. I wrote lots of bad things but they started to get better. And because of my dad, I saw that spark inside, something that said, "You were created to do this."

Dad still teaches me. I am the oldest of four children and as a group we get together for family prayer times once a month. He teaches us in those times, in a natural way, about whatever he learned in his quiet time. Or if I go walking with him, which we often do in the mornings, I get taught.

He is an encourager like no one else I have ever seen in my life. And because of it, whenever I have sensed God calling me to do something, I have known I could do it. That is a gift I received from both my parents, but especially from my dad.

Just yesterday, I went out to my parents' house for a couple of hours. My dad put his arm around me, smiled and said, "You know, you are such a blessing to me and to our family." Some people wait all their lives and never get one word like that from their dad. He does it literally day to day and moment to moment--so much encouragement that the temptation is to take it for granted.

Dad also lived out what he preached. Before the days of YWAM, he pastored a church here in northwest Arkansas. I've heard other ministers' kids talk about how they would hear their dad get up and preach, but then see a different person at home. Not us. We would see our dad early in the morning, sitting at the dining-room table with his Bible, maybe some study books, having his quiet time. Or he would be in the backyard walking around praying, singing out loud, disturbing the neighbors and the wildlife, but just worshipping on his own. We saw that, and we saw the consistent love that he had for our mom, for us, and for my grandparents who lived next door.

Not that he never made mistakes. But when he made a mistake, he would acknowledge it. It would even become a teaching opportunity. And if he felt that he had sinned against one of us, he would ask for our forgiveness. He let his kids see that he was not perfect and acknowledged that he, too, needed to be forgiven--even by us, certainly by God.

I am very grateful to have a father on earth who models what my Father in heaven wants me to know about Him. When I was 12, I learned about mercy. All my girlfriends were shaving their legs and I wanted to, but Mom said not yet, because she knew that once you start, you have to keep it up. Well, I went and got my dad's razor anyway, because I was going to a ballgame and everybody was going to have shorts on. Everybody would see my awful, hairy legs--you know, one-centimeter-long blond hairs that you couldn't even see. Anyway, I shaved my legs, and in the process, sliced my thumb on my dad's razor. So I had these smooth, shaved legs and this big slice on my thumb when my parents said to me, "Did you shave your legs?"

"No."

"How did you cut your thumb?"

"On the edge of the cabinet in the bathroom."

They kept questioning me and pretty soon it came out, with me bawling and confessing. Even though the act itself was a silly little thing, my disobedience and my lying were the moral issues. And what I remember is that my parents prayed with me. A few hours later, Dad came home with a new leather Bible that had my name imprinted on it. And in the front (momentous enough that I can still quote it off the top of my head) he wrote, "To Twila, From Mom and Dad. In honor of one of those days when God shows His love to a child in need."

About four years ago, we thought Dad had a heart attack. It was a different health problem, but it caused him to stop breathing and have to go to the hospital in an ambulance. He took medication and was fine, but I remember my first thought was, "Oh no, Lord, we are not ready to be that front-line generation."

Right now, my parents are still the generation we run to in trouble. When they're gone, my brothers and sisters and I will become that generation. We will be the ones that have something wise to say because we have known God so long, and can speak the truth and wisdom of the patriarch or matriarch. From time to time, when Dad will be teaching me, I find myself listening harder, closer, thinking that someday teaching the next generation will be my responsibility, our responsibility. My father has done it well--will we, too, do it well?