Recently, she and her family were shingling her grandparents’ roof a stone’s throw from my house while I was out mowing, or trying to, anyway. My rechargeable mower had charged down to only a whisper, a point at which a particularly strong blade of grass can stop the blade from turning. Beth and her family looked on, stunned. To them, the mower was making no sound at all, yet I was still plodding along.

I glanced over at them and wondered why they were laughing. Was it my funny hat? Was it that I kept having to hike up my two-sizes-too-big jeans? Turns out, they were contemplating helping me out by walking behind me as I mowed and saying "Vroom, vroom!"

That’s the kind of sense of humor I understand. What a great family.

I recently wrote about a young man – a funny and faith-filled public speaker — who watched his young sister run across his basement just moments after she died in a hospital miles away. And I’ve written a few times about my blind great grandfather who made an appearance at his own memorial service, smiling as he looked down at his twin sons, whom he had never set eyes on before. Two people saw my great grandpa that day, not just one.

It ain’t fiction, folks. Life doesn’t end. In fact, you might say that death is the ultimate makeover. Life goes on, relationships continue even after death, and the party’s in heaven. Be there or be square.

St. Paul said it best when he defined fatherhood as "that fine line between love and total anarchy." Or maybe it was St. Matthew. I know it was either St. Paul, St. Matthew, or Carl Malden.

Anyway, I’d like to wish all the dads a happy Father’s Day — from the young dads learning about those "new-baby" smells, to middle-aged fathers hoping their teens don’t behave the way they did, to those who’ve earned the well-deserved titles of "grand" and/or "great."

The year was 1971, and I was an 8-year-old on a mission. My friend and I had dug a deep fort in a field behind his house, but every night someone came along and destroyed it.

In retrospect, it was probably the landowner, a grizzled farmer who probably didn’t much like a deep crater dug on his property. We devised a plan in which we roped fishing line around the fort, ran it to my friend’s bedroom window, and tied several tin cans at the end. I would spend the night at his house, and should the assailant return, the alarm would be raised, and we’d … well, I’m not sure what we’d do at that point.

Of course, once I told my dad of our plan (I was just so proud!), he forbade me to go, understandably concerned about his 8-year-old running through a field at night to confront an unknown fort-wrecker.

But like any hardened soldier, I was determined not to fail in my mission. So that night I took my Sesame Street "Ernie" doll and put it under my blanket, allowing his little tuft of black hair to poke out onto the pillow. Perfect, I thought, looking at the tiny form. If Dad happened to come in my room, surely he wouldn’t question my suddenly having black hair, or that I had shrunk to 17 inches tall. (I wasn’t the brightest kid on the block.) I pushed open my window and sneaked off into the night.

I wasn’t at my friend’s house for more than 15 minutes when a knock came at the door. It was Dad. I don’t remember what he said, only that I felt like a tiny convict, and that handcuffs and a black and white striped suit wouldn’t have felt at all out of place. I’ll never forget being led away, looking down at the sidewalk and saying in a forlorn voice, "You got me."

And years later, when I would get into more serious trouble, I would eventually hear that same knock, sometimes from Dad, sometimes from God, but always ready to take my hand and lead me back home.