The Question That Broke Me Open: Was Dad Proud of Me?
“Listen to your father who gave you life… the father of a righteous son will greatly rejoice.” Proverbs 23:22-24
Six month old me with my mom and dad.
It was a muggy summer morning. I had just returned from an early run when Cindy met me at the door. Her voice was soft but steady: “Jeff, I have sad news. Your mom called. Your dad died last night.”
My reaction revealed a relational hole I didn’t know existed. “Cindy, was Dad proud of me?” I didn’t ask how he died. I didn’t ask how my mom was doing. I didn’t ask whether my brothers knew. Just one question—raw and unfiltered: Was Dad proud of me?
Cindy answered gently, “Oh yes, of course he was.” Then the tears came—deep, painful tears.
The Wound I Didn’t Know I Carried
Dad talked little about his childhood, but what I do know is that it was unsettled and difficult. Affection and affirmations were scarce. When our second daughter, Kristen, died at age two, Dad told me she was the first person he ever loved who had died. That sentence revealed more about his upbringing than he ever said directly.
His mother, Edith, and his father, Homer, were not married long. One of Grandma Edith’s other husbands had ties to the Chicago mob. Dad spent much of his childhood on his own. After graduating from Senn High School in Chicago (quite a name for a high school), dad joined the Air Force, served seven years working on B‑52s, and rose to the rank of Staff Sergeant. When he returned home, a blow-up with Grandpa Homer pushed dad from Grandpa Homer’s trucking business into a career as an Illinois State Trooper.
Grandpa Homer in his early days of trucking and dad with some of his many shooting trophies.
Cindy and I grew up in McLean, Illinois—a small farming community where everyone knew the Barclays. My family included my mom Donna, my brothers Steve and Mike, and my dad Gerald. I was the oldest. Mom was the school secretary. Dad was dad and I was his son. That part was simple. The rest was complex.
As a state trooper dad was a champion pistol shooter, a skill he inherited from his dad. Of all my childhood nicknames, Lil’ Trooper meant the most. So, when a mean neighborhood kid first used it to make fun of me, I laughed and wore the name with honor because I was proud that dad was a state trooper.
Dad always had a second job. Eventually he settled on painting. I painted with him from seventh grade through college. He worked nights as a state trooper and painted during the day, typically leaving mid-afternoon to catch a few hours of sleep. The rest of us stayed until 5pm. This meant he was usually tired, rushed, and intense. In those conditions painting with Dad and avoiding angry tension required a blend of guesswork and mindreading. Some days, managing his emotions required more energy than painting!
Every summer, we painted countless homes and farms, moving from one job to the next without celebration—another project waiting. Yet, while we still lived in Central Illinois, our older children remember me smiling with satisfaction as I pointed out places we had painted: “We painted that house, that barn, that farm, that business…”
To escape painting I also walked beans, baled hay, detasseled corn, and in college did new-student orientations and worked on the Illinois and Mississippi Rivers as a commercial river diver. (My diving days are stories for another time.)
What I don’t remember ever hearing was, “Well done” or “Thank you.”
Irony of ironies, when I was a self-supported church planter, I painted and was grateful for what dad had taught me about commercial painting. Painting’s low overhead and time flexibility became my chief source of income.
From as far back as I can remember and through my late twenties, everything about my relationship with dad was a roller coaster mix of “so-close-but-not-quite.”
Here are two examples:
Dad knew I loved to swim and at the time was planning to be a marine biologist. This led him to introduce me to a former Green Beret and explosives engineer who certified and hired me as a dark-water scuba diver. I worked alongside former Navy Seals. It was dangerous and difficult work. When I returned on weekends dad never asked me how things had gone.
I was a decent distance runner. It was dad who arranged for me to meet my future college coach. My university was not known for its distance runners, but I did set several school records. College was only fifteen miles from home and yet dad never came to see me run in a cross-country race or track meet.
Dad opened many doors of opportunity for me. But I don’t recall him ever asking how things went.
What Dad Gave Me
We aren’t Jewish, but without knowing it, Dad followed the pattern of many Jewish fathers: he made sure I had a variety of work skills and expected me to be well-educated. My first degree was a B.A. in Biology at Illinois Wesleyan University. One course shy of completing a Master’s, I shifted career paths. I announced I felt called to become a pastor. Dad didn’t understand it or encourage it, but he didn’t reject me either.
Like many sons, as I grew older, I started appreciating dad’s wisdom and admiring his experience. We grew closer and had deeply personal conversations.
I am grateful that Dad connected me with other men who helped shape my character, build my confidence, and increase my capabilities.
Dad wasn’t patient—except when he was. He could erupt, but he could also fish peacefully and intently for hours. On vacations he laughed and patiently towed my brothers and me around the lake for hours water skiing.
Boating was special to dad. When I was born, dad had named his speedboat The Little Jeff. As I type this, I am smiling and nodding at one of his boat‑racing trophies. Dad never learned to swim, but he was always the most relaxed on a boat. He shared his love of boating with me and I still love it.
Dad and mom in their boat the “Little Jeff,” and dad pushing my middle brother Steve and me in a cardboard train.
As a young man, dad played semi-pro baseball. I still have his four-fingered fielder’s glove. He coached my summer teams and instructed me how to play catcher, bunt, and hit the ball to the opposite field. As I was not a strong hitter, he also showed me how to lean in and let the ball hit me for a free pass to first. On the baseball field, Dad modeled tenacity and intensity. I picked up both.
I treasure this glove because it reminds me of playing catch with dad.
Dad gave me what he had:
The ability to finish a project
The desire to never stop learning
The capacity to multi-task
Resilience and a relentless work ethic
The value of knowing-the-guy-that-knows-the-guy, in other words, networking with competent, well‑connected people
But dad could not give me what he had never received: affirmation, tenderness, and the words “I’m proud of you.” Those missing pieces created a father‑wound in me—a longing I didn’t know existed until the moment Cindy told me he had died.
The Turning Point: God the Father Stepped In
The question, “Was Dad proud of me?” opened a hidden emptiness in my heart, a void the Holy Spirit had been waiting to fill.
In the months that followed, the Holy Spirit began revealing God, the Father of all, as my Father! Not in theory. Not in doctrine. But in experience.
The Lord started healing the part of me that had not absorbed my dad’s affection or the fact that he was proud of me.
My heavenly father spoke the words my dad didn’t know how to say. This was not dishonoring my dad. It was completing what he began.
What I Carry Forward as a Father and Grandfather
After dad’s retirement our father-son relationship shifted to a friendship of sorts. Best of all, dad gave his heart to Jesus at a Sandi Patty concert mom and dad and Cindy and I attended together. Dad began periodically attending the church where I was pastoring. Even after my young family moved ninety miles away, he and Mom would sometimes make the trip to hear me preach.
I definitely remember a Pastor Appreciation Sunday when he celebrated me in front of my congregation. To be honest, as our relationship evolved, I found myself scrambling to build a new emotional space for it. That space was still under construction when Dad died.
May 1991. My dad speaking on Pastor’s Appreciation Day in Galesburg, IL.
The question Was Dad proud of me continues to teach me. As a father and grandfather, I want my children and grandchildren to know without doubt how proud I am of them. I want them to hear it, feel it, and never have to wonder. In doing so, I am honoring my father and I living out the healing God has given me.
A Word to Fathers
Your children need to hear words of life and affirmation from you. Say these plainly and often, even if it feels awkward. Your silence will be interpreted as indifference. The blessing of your love and approval will instill courage, security and belonging.
A Word to Men with a Father‑Wound
The Father of all is able—and eager—to heal your unique hurts. He can comfort places that ache, the places your dad never reached. Let Him speak the words your heart still longs to hear.
If my question — Was Dad proud of me — echoes in your own heart, a loving heavenly Father is ready to meet you there.
I borrowed this photo from a larger display our daughter-in-love Amanda made as a tribute to my dad and to honor our youngest son Joshua, a county deputy. The Bible verses Amanda used to frame this photo move me to tears.
Was dad proud of me? Of course he was. Was I proud of my dad? You better believe it!
“Hear, my sons, a father’s instruction… let your heart hold fast to my words.”— Proverbs 4:1–4