When I was growing up, every year about this time our church held a Father’s Day writing contest for the school age children below the sixth grade. We each were to write why we thought our Dad was the best Dad in the world. The contest rules required that each paper start with “My Dad is the best Dad in the world because…”
The contest offered a modest prize for the winning child and Dad, but the real prize was having the winning essay acknowledged and read before the whole congregation before the Sunday sermon on Father’s Day. The pride of having everyone know how you felt about your Dad was the best prize of all.
One year, in preparation for writing my entry, I made a list of all the things I thought the people at the Church would be looking for in the winning essay, and I tried to put each of those things into my composition. I wrote about how my dad took me and my sisters to church twice each Sunday and on Wednesday night as well. One by one I set forth each of the things that in my estimation established my dad as a paragon of Christian virtue. After the fourth rewrite, I deemed the paper ready for submission. The deadline was the Sunday before Father’s Day.
A week can be a very long time in the life of a child—a very long time to wait for contest results! During that week I made a card and a present for Father’s Day, so the event was ever present in my mind. It was impossible for me to overlook that time was passing almost as slowly as it did the week before school was out for the summer. Then finally, Father’s Day arrived.
I didn’t win the contest that year. A much younger child with a one sentence submission got the prize. I was so disappointed. I had worked harder on that essay than I’d ever worked on any school assignment.
As an adult I can appreciate why the other child won. If I were a dad I would be very happy and deeply moved if my child submitted that one sentence essay:
My Dad is the best Dad in the world because he is my Dad and I love him.
©IStockPhoto/Lain Sarjeant
When I was growing up, every year about this time our church held a Father’s Day writing contest for school age children below the sixth grade. We each were to write why we thought our Dad was the best Dad in the world. The contest rules required that each paper start with “My Dad is the best Dad in the world because…”
The contest offered a modest prize for the winning child and Dad, but the real prize was having the winning essay acknowledged and read before the whole congregation before the sermon on Father’s Day. The pride of having everyone know how you felt about your Dad was the best prize of all.
One year, in preparation for writing my entry, I made a list of all the things I thought the people at the Church would be looking for in the winning essay, and I tried to put each of those things into my composition. I wrote about how my dad took me and my sisters to church twice each Sunday and on Wednesday night as well. One by one I set forth each of the things that in my estimation established my dad as a paragon of Christian virtue. After the fourth rewrite, I deemed the paper ready for submission. The deadline was the Sunday before Father’s Day.
A week can be a very long time in the life of a child—a very long time to wait for contest results! During that week I made a card and a present for Father’s Day, so the event was ever present in my mind. It was impossible for me to overlook that time was passing almost as slowly as it did the week before school was out for the summer. Then finally, Father’s Day arrived.
I didn’t win the contest that year. A much younger child with a one sentence submission got the prize. I was so disappointed! I had worked harder on that essay than I’d ever worked on any school assignment.
As an adult I can appreciate why the other child won. If I were a dad, I would be very happy and deeply moved if my child submitted that one sentence essay:
“My Dad is the best Dad in the world because he is my Dad and I love him.”
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