Chapter 2: Daddy’s Lesson in Truth and Integrity 

When I was four years old, Mommy made hamburgers for dinner. Mommy enjoyed eating ground beef. She loved hamburgers, meatloaf, sloppy joes, and everything made with ground beef. But for me, just the sight of its mottled brownness made my stomach clench. No matter how much ketchup I put on the hamburger, I was struggling with every bite. Just the smell of ground beef cooking was enough to stop me from eating. Each chew wasn’t just a battle; it was a miniature war waged on my taste buds, the coarse texture a constant, gag-inducing reminder. It felt like an impossible mountain of gristle and grease to conquer. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, each second a slow-motion torment at the dinner table. My parents, happily chatting while they enjoyed every bite, seemed to finish their own meals in a blink. 

I was taking so long to eat my hamburger that my parents left to care for my baby brother. I was sitting there playing with my food. The moment their footsteps receded, an audacious plan sparked in my little mind. My heart began to drum a nervous, excited beat against my ribs. I felt like a tiny spy, my movements hushed as I secretly bundled the cold, heavy mound of ketchup slathered ground beef into my napkin. Each tiptoe across the kitchen floor was a daring escape, culminating in the soft, satisfying thump as it vanished into the cavernous darkness of the garbage can. Plate placed, mission accomplished, I bolted, not walked, to the family room to watch TV, a giddy sense of triumph bubbling inside me. 

A few minutes later, Daddy came up behind me and asked me how my dinner was. The carefree bubble of my triumph burst the instant Daddy’s voice, calm yet inexplicably there, spoke from right behind me: “How was dinner?” My “It was great Daddy,” felt thin and hollow, a house of cards ready to collapse. He asked me if I finished my hamburger. “Yes, Daddy,” the lie stuck in my throat, making my tummy hurt. And then, the slow, deliberate arc of his arm, bringing that crumpled, incriminating napkin into full, horrifying view. The world stopped. “Then what’s this?” he asked, his voice a low, steady rumble. My breath froze in my lungs. My heart seized, a sudden, brutal clench! “Yikes!” The floor seemed to drop away, the room spun, and in that agonizing, eternal second, I knew I was utterly, irrevocably trapped. 

The Difference between Truth and Lies 

The scalding flush of shame spread across my face, painting it a deep crimson. I was utterly exposed, caught in my very first deliberate lie to Daddy. Yet, instead of the storm I expected, he did something profound. He knelt, bringing his kind face level with mine, and his large hand gently, reassuringly, enveloped my small one. There was no anger, only a quiet, resolute purpose in his eyes as he began to untangle the knotted mess of my deceit. He explained, patiently and lovingly, the stark, crystal-clear difference between spinning a lie and simply telling the truth. His words, soft yet firm, engraved themselves into my four-year-old soul: he would always know. And that, he stressed, was why telling him the truth, above all else, was not just important, but sacred. The truth was simple: I just had to share with him the truth about my aversion to hamburgers. What was most important to him was that I would eat something for dinner. If I didn’t like hamburgers, then I could have something else for dinner, like a tuna sandwich. With truth, he could work the problem out, no matter what it was. With knowledge, he could solve my issue. He said that lies would be more difficult to keep and will always have bad consequences. Daddy said, “It’s always better to tell the truth.” He assured me that he always knew when someone was lying to him, without fail. 

The realization hit me with the force of a revelation, not just a question: why would I ever bother to lie to Daddy if he always knew the truth anyway? It wasn’t merely a question; it was a seismic shift in the very foundations of my four-year-old world. When he looked into my eyes, it wasn’t just a glance; it was as if he held a giant, luminous flashlight, probing every secret corner, illuminating every nascent thought within my budding soul. In his unwavering gaze, I knew – with a certainty that chilled and comforted me simultaneously – that he had already seen the truth, long before a single question passed his lips. He always knew! From that pivotal, searing moment, the absolute, unyielding necessity of telling the truth became my life’s most paramount lesson, a sacred vow I made to myself and to him. It was in that moment, kneeling beside my Daddy, that the abstract words of the Ten Commandments suddenly, profoundly, sprang to vibrant, undeniable life within me. 

From that day forward, no matter what Daddy asked me – and Daddy’s questions often felt like gentle yet penetrating probes into the very core of my being – the words ‘I made a mistake,’ flowed more freely than any fabrication could. I simply could not lie to Daddy. And he, in turn, never, ever lied to me. He held an unwavering conviction that even the hardest truths were ultimately easier to bear, lighter to carry, than the simplest lie. Honesty, for him, was the unyielding bedrock of every interaction, every challenge. He might be disappointed, yes, but the unspoken promise was always there, radiating from his gaze: with truth as our guide, we could navigate anything together. I don’t know how, but Daddy always knew when people were lying to him.  

Daddy interceded in a few dysfunctional family relationships because both the parents and the teenagers trusted Daddy above their own family. Daddy had the ability to reach the hardened hearts of struggling teens who were estranged from their parents. He listened without judgment, offering not just solutions, but genuine understanding. Everyone knew they could trust Daddy to be honest, and fair, with the wisdom of King Solomon. 

The Tangible Power of Daddy’s Promises 

The proof was in every action, a comforting, rhythmic certainty in my young life. When Daddy said he would buy me something, the item materialized, a tangible testament to his word. When he said he would take me somewhere, the adventure unfolded, a promise kept, a memory etched. When he committed to meeting me at a specific time, he wasn’t just there; he was early, ready, and patiently waiting, as if time itself bent to his integrity. His word was the most steadfast anchor in the often-turbulent seas of my young life, an absolute, unshakeable certainty I could always, rely on. I could count on him, utterly, completely, every single time, without a shadow of a doubt. 

Daddy’s sincere heart and unshakable integrity cemented my faith in his promises. It was the mark of his character and reputation. Daddy followed the Ten Commandments. He said life is so much simpler that way. How amazing that Daddy was actively teaching me the Ten Commandments in direct relationship to my life. Daddy was modeling God’s word to me. Daddy’s ‘word’ was his ‘bond’. He was known for his integrity and reliability.  

He was always doing someone a favor and responded to his friend’s requests with a sincere desire to help. It seemed like Daddy knew everyone in the world. People knew Daddy as a man who could be counted on. He kept his promises and had friends everywhere. Daddy was not careless with words nor with promises. Everyone knew that about him. It’s what made him such a successful Executive. His unwavering commitment to his promises made him a trustworthy husband, father, friend, neighbor, and businessman. 

His life wielded tremendous power because of his high integrity. Daddy taught me that when I make someone a promise “they should be able to take that promise to the bank”. He said to be careful with my words because they had power. He emphasized the fact that words are promises to Adonai when I utter them. Daddy’s example of high integrity was a big part of what made him my amazing Daddy.