Once I raced my dad, fully expecting to leave him in the dust. I was a fleet-of-foot, pre-teen boy—used to running, jumping, and climbing—who was just emerging into adolescence with all the hormonal changes, self-centeredness, and overconfidence that come with it. I was ready to take on Dad. I respected him, but he was an old guy, probably in his early- or mid-forties (you must member that to a twelve-year-old, that was old!). In his youth, he had played on the school football and basketball teams (back in the days when free throws were shot underhanded and jump shots were taken with two hands on either side of the ball—definitely old school). And he had passed down his baseball knowledge as our little league coach. Yes, sports ran in our family. But Dad’s athleticism had been relegated to catching my pitches in practice, so I assumed this running race should be an easy conquest for me.

It was a Friday evening, we were at my older brother’s high school football game (the American sport, not soccer), and it was half-time. During the first half, I had been envisioning myself on the field as a wide receiver, outrunning the other team’s defense, catching the pass, and sprinting to the endzone. That was my future, my destiny—my imagination. For a young boy, athletic prowess was the avenue toward personal self-worth and success in life; it was my way to prove my significance.

Dad and I were returning to the bleachers when the voice over the loudspeaker announced the beginning of the second half. The crowds had mostly dispersed, and I chose to challenge my dad to a running race back to the stands—and he agreed. Now was my chance to show him my stuff. Fortunately, I had on my Red Ball Jets, the popular running shoes for all fast kids back then (these eventually gave way to my high-top Chuck Taylor Converse Allstars for the basketball court).

At the signal, before I could burst into my sprint, Dad took off like a shot out of a cannon. I stood there surprised and paralyzed like I was watching a lightning bolt. I can still see in my mind’s eye to this day (some sixty years later) my dad’s knees and legs rapidly pumping up and down like pistons in an engine running full throttle. His arms were likewise pumping forward and back, up and down, looking like his upper body was trying to catch up with his legs. There was no way I could catch up with him, though I tried; the dust in my gaping mouth did not taste pleasant. Nothing else from that episode remains in my memory, but we eventually found our way back to our seats, me with my tail hanging between my legs. I never mentioned to anyone (until now) that I got beat by my dad, an old man! I would have to wait for another day to take him on.

Sometimes it is easy to look at older people and put them out to pasture, so to speak. We think we know better than they or write them off as “old-school,” past their prime. What they know is outdated, and their abilities are being hampered by age. To be sure, as my dad and I both grew older, there came a time when I could beat him in a foot race, but when that time came, it was no longer important. And though I would disagree with him on some things, he carried a reservoir of life experiences and seasoned wisdom—which, unfortunately, I didn’t tap into enough.

Dad passed away when I was forty years old (an old man by the standards of my twelve-year-old self in the episode above); he was seventy-two years old. I thank God for the many lessons of life I learned from him. He wasn’t perfect, of course, but he taught me how to respect others regardless of their race, care for and provide for family, look after parents in their old age, say please and thank you, be industrious, get a good education, continue learning throughout life, dream about the future, love the great outdoors, spend money wisely and conservatively, be involved in my kids’ lives, treat women with respect and dignity, and the list goes on.

One other thing I learned from Dad was not to be afraid to ask questions and seek the knowledge and wisdom of others. I wish I had been more active in seeking his opinion and counsel, and listening to his perspective. However, rather than wallow in regret, I am challenged by Scripture not to waste the opportunities we all have while still on this earth:

So teach us to number our days, that we may present to You a heart of wisdom. (Psalm 90:12)

“Remember the days of old, consider the years of all generations. Ask your father, and he will inform you, your elders, and they will tell you.” (Deuteronomy 32:7)