I watched intently as my little brother was caught in the act.  He sat in the corner of the living room, a pen in one hand and my father's hymnbook in the other.  As my father walked into the room, my brother cowered slightly; he sensed that he had done something wrong.  From a distance, I saw that he had opened my father's brand-new book and scribbled across the length and breadth of the entire first page with a pen.  Now, staring at my father fearfully, he and I both waited for his punishment.
     My father picked up his prized hymnal, looked at it carefully, and then sat down without saying a word.  Books were precious to him; he was a clergyman and the holder of several degrees.  For him, books were knowledge, and yet, he loved his children.  What he did in the next few minutes was remarkable.  Instead of punishing my brother, instead of scolding or yelling or reprimanding, he sat down, took the pen from my brother's hand and then wrote in the book himself, alongside the scribbles John had made: "John's word 1959, age two.  How many times have I looked into your beautiful face and into your warm, alert eyes looking up at me and thanked God for the one who has now scribbled in my new hymnal?  You have made the book sacred as have your brothers and sister to so much of my life."  Wow, I thought.  This is punishment?
     From time to time I take a book down - not just a cheesy paperback but a real book that I know I will have for many years to come - and I give it to one of my children to scribble or write their names in.  And as I look at their artwork, I think about my father, and how he taught me about what really matters in life: people, not objects; tolerance, not judgment; love which is at the very heart of a family.  I think about these things, and I smile.  And I whisper, "Thank you, Dad."