Originally published in “Newbreak” November 15th, 2023.
Those of you who worked with my Father closely know what words come next. It’s a phrase my Father spoke almost daily. Don’t put off until tomorrow… what you can do today. Growing up in the Ford household the word “tomorrow” was almost considered a foul word. My father didn’t believe in waiting for anything regardless of what time of day it was, what the weather conditions were or the size of the ministry bank account. He once broke ground on a construction project in Central America with roughly $20.00 in US currency. He had yet to share the idea with stateside supporters but a local pastor had given him a few hundred Córdobas. He took it directly to the builders and said “what can you do with this?” The man told him he could dig the trench for the foundation of one of the walls. “Dig the trench.” He said handing him the Córdobas. Today that wall and the completed buildings that went with it still stand in El Crucero Nicaragua.
Growing up on our farm I was put to work as soon as I was physically able. At around 7 or 8 years old one of my first jobs was holding a flashlight so that he could work after the sun had already went down. This wasn’t a one time thing, nor was the amount of times we worked drenched by thunderstorms or risked heat exhaustion in the summer sun. “You have to make hay when you can make hay.” He used to say. For those of you that weren’t raised on a farm that means you have to work while the weather conditions permit. Except in my father’s eyes you could always make hay… and one way or another he always did.
He was a man of many giftings and talents… he loved on broken people around the world, fed hungry bellies, provided clothes for the naked, water for the thirsty and the Word of God to those who hungered for it. While he did those things in a great and mighty way I have encountered others who have matched or surpassed his accomplishments. But there is one place in my opinion where he was unmatched. One trait or gift that he carried that even today I have yet to witness his equal… that was his drive to “run his race.” You simply could not stop the man. He was a force to be reckoned with. There’s at least a hundred memories I could vividly recall where he simply refused to give up. Like the time he tore the tendon is his knee when it got trapped in the tongue of a hay trailer, while we were actually “making hay”. He had me and another worker lift him back up on the tractor so he could continue bailing our hay even though he couldn’t lift his leg to brake the tractor. In his eyes brakes were optional. Or the time the engine in our ministry van quit at the Costa Rica and Nicaraguan border… he had me get out and push the van across country lines while security was screaming at us to stop. “Don’t stop!” He told me as he demanded I kept pushing. Or how he somehow pushed his heart 15 years after he was told he needed surgery. “Can’t never did nothing!” was another one of his favorite metaphors that he yet again proved to be true with the example of his life.
For my father “I’ll do it tomorrow” was the equivalent of sitting out to do something with an “I can’t” attitude… or letting your hay be ruined by the rain. While it may seem like a “man of today” is not a “man of tomorrow”. The truth is actually quite the opposite. A man of today like my father, did the most the he could do today, so that tomorrow… he could do more. It’s all about the tomorrow. Today is merely the barrier between you and tomorrow. Today’s task left undone, consumes your tomorrow. And tomorrow isn’t something that is guaranteed for any of us.
My father and I didn’t communicate well. The truth is we were both far too much alike and we were both too afraid to admit it. We were both communicators, story tellers and when needed salesmen. In the spiritual we were able to communicate scripture in way that helped others understand better and in the natural we could both communicate with customers in a way that helped us close deals and made us both successful entrepreneurs. In sales the best closers are the best communicators. I once saw a customer negotiate for hours with my father on a substantially large business deal. After failing to get my dad to budge any more on the price the customer walked off… but then he stopped and turned back toward my father and made some hand signals. I will never forget seeing my dad stop for a moment and think… smile and make a hand signal back and nod his head. He closed that deal 20ft away without even using words and then they both walked up to each other and shook hands. But for us… it didn’t work that way. We both tried to communicate better but didn’t make much progress over the past decade. Communicating about anything too serious is something I think we both avoided unless we had to. Our lack of communication left a lot of words unsaid for the both of us. Words that I pray we will get to say when we see each other once again on the “other side”.
Much like my father I am called and gifted to do many things, but there is one thing that stands out stronger than all the others… to write, I am called to be an author. I’ve known that for several years and have reluctantly and weakly pursued that calling. I’m currently writing my second book entitled “Me in The Mirror”. My first book “The War of Hearts” has been sitting on my hard drive untouched for several years. For the last year of my dad’s life the Holy Spirit continually impressed upon me to tell him about my calling. On September 2nd of 2022 I was on the phone with my father helping him close a business deal. I tried to offer him help in whatever way I could throughout the years. Helping him close this deal was a favor I was doing, something to show him love. As we got off the phone I got up and starting walking out of my office. I reached the door I heard the still small voice of the Holy Spirit say “Tell him that you are an author.” While just a whisper it was strong enough to stop me in my tracks as I reached for the door knob to leave. This time I felt the Holy Spirit tell me not to complicate it. “Just pick up the phone and call him back, just say “Dad, I am called to be an author.” We had communicated decently well that day so there was a little less anxiety about trying to communicate with him. Maybe this time it would go well I thought… I stood still in front of my door, contemplating calling him and while also trying to overcome the anxiety I always had about speaking with him. I still had a lot to do that day and it was already almost 7:30pm. I had a business partner driving from out of state for an important all day meeting tomorrow and I still wasn’t prepared for it. After thinking about it for a few minutes I said those words I was taught to never say… “I’ll do it tomorrow.” After all I thought, if we were communicating ok today, we will probably be communicating ok tomorrow too. I was going through a lot that day and didn’t have much of myself left. After speaking those exact words I reached for the door handle and continued the rest of my evening.
A few hours later, around 11:00pm I was on the phone with that same partner talking through a few things about life and our meeting to come. I heard a call waiting beep and looked my phone… it was my mother who didn’t normally call that late. I answered her call and was met with mom franticly crying. “Josh, I need you.” She managed to get out through her tears. “Your dad let out a big gulp and I don’t think he’s breathing, I don’t know what to do!” We both immediately started praying and I made a beeline for my front door. I had my mom hang up to call 911 and I switched back over to my partner who is also a person of faith. We both started interceding for my father as I raced the 2 mile drive to my dad’s apartment hazard lights on. I barreled through the gate and left the truck parked with the lights still flashing so the ambulance would know where to go.
As I came through the door my mom was also interceding for my father’s life… I grabbed her and hugged her while she handed me the phone with the 911 operator still on the line. I rushed over to my father’s bedside and checked his vitals. He was unresponsive and not breathing but I could that he was still there. I laid my hands on him and started praying, rebuking death itself if it was God’s will for his life to continue. I held his face with my hand… “Come on dad, come on! Can you hear me?” He could see me, I could see him… but there was no communication, no response. The 911 operator got annoyed by my prayers and it was obvious in her voice. “Sir..” She said. “Is he in a bed? I need you to get him to the floor.” My father was 6’2” and to me and many other’s he was larger than life. “I don’t know if I can.” I told her. But as my dad always said “Can’t never did nothing…” I took a deep breath and scooped him up in my arms. I don’t know if it was surge of adrenalin or the fact that my dad was 74 years into running his race… but it didn’t feel like it took any effort to lift him up into my arms. I laid him on the floor and started doing chest compressions as the 911 operator instructed. “Count with me” she said “1…2…3…4…1…2…3…4” As I was trying to manually pump his heart with my hands and keep oxygen circulating through his body, I kept trying to talk to him, trying to communicate, just like I spent the past decade of my life trying to do. “Dad, come on!” I said over and over again while also interceding on his behalf. Every time I stopped counting with her the 911 operator got more annoyed with my prayers. “Sir!… Sir! Count with me!” She would say.
The more annoyed she got by me not counting with her and my prayers, the more annoyed I got by her. But she was the least of my concerns. I know she meant well, but she didn’t know who I was, She didn’t know who my father was. As a man of many talents my father was also an excellent musician. The first few decades of his ministry, my mother and him sang as they traveled through America and preached. The first instrument my father taught me was the drums and like everything else in my life he was insistent that I play on perfect beat even if the church bands we played with did not. Often times teaching me on a metronome from the 1970’s then blinding my view of the swinging pendulum to see if I was on beat when he once again revealed it to me. I didn’t need her count to help me keep timing on the 100 beats per minute his heart needed to be pumped. I could do that with my eyes closed or while praying for him or while trying to talk to him… because of him. And I knew I was going to have to because the ambulance continued to struggle finding the entrance to his apartment in his ministry headquarters. Sweat began to pour off me as I became more tired and my arms got weaker. But just like he taught me. I continued, compression after compression and with each one the understanding that he wasn’t coming back kept sinking deeper and deeper within my soul… 1…2…3…4….1…2…3…4.
I know he was with me when I laid him on the floor… but somewhere in that rhythm, somewhere in-between the swing of that pendulum and with my hands around his heart… he walked through the gates of that kingdom that he “had been forcefully advancing” here on earth for so many decades. When the paramedics finally arrived I was still keeping beat, I was still making hay… but there was not going to be a “tomorrow” for my father and I and I already knew that. But I was still pumping, like he taught me. I was still trying and refusing to quit even if failure was eminent.
That internal metronome that my father trained within my soul still swinging. Even if no one, including myself could see it.
Instead of stepping in taking over the chest compressions the paramedics kept asking me questions while they got their equipment together. Eventually as the sweat pouring off me became more visible and my breath running out became more audible… someone stepped in to keep the count going as they tried to revive him with the defibrillator and with epinephrine… but by that time he was already home…walking the streets of gold he so desperately longed for.
As my father used to say… “Don’t put off until tomorrow… What you can do today.” My father’s tomorrow never came and mine was forever changed. I will never make that phone call, I will never tell my dad that God has called me to be an author. The last conversation I had with my father was helping him close a business deal. One that we canceled shortly after his death. It could have been one of intention. God’s calling on my life could have been the last thing I said to my father if only I had obeyed the Holy Spirit. What are you waiting to tell a loved one? Could you possibly be like me? Because of anxiety or fear could you be holding back? Are you living your life like tomorrow is something that is promised to you? Are you putting off the things of the Spirit and instead doing the natural things that will all pass away? Do you need to repent or tell a loved one that you are sorry? Are there people in bondage waiting to hear your words? Is there a calling that you have continued to procrastinate on because it doesn’t fit into your current day to day of your life? Is there an act of boldness or courage you need to take? Is there a rebuke that God has asked you to deliver to a loved one? In love and with a savor like salt deliver it. Accept another one of your callings… I urge you today, make that phone call, quit that job, accept a new one or never accept a job again. Say what you have been holding back. Tell them that you love them! Walk into what God has for you or help another walk into it before it’s too late. Do not put off until tomorrow what you can do today.
If someone asked me to sum up my father’s heart cry in one sentence, I would ask who my audience was. But to you who are reading this, to the believers across the world who already know the master, I know exactly what I would say… “Move to the front lines!”. That was the heart of my father for the body of Christ today. Move to the front lines! Don’t except ordinary, don’t be complacent with your relationship with Christ. Don’t be ok to only watch the fighting from the back lines. Do not stay where it is safe at the cost of others or at the cost you yourself might have to pay. Move! Fight to get there, run, crawl, whatever it takes. Just follow the still small voice of the Holy Spirit, obey Him and if you don’t hear Him, get to a quiet place where you can. Seek him at all cost, intercede, fast and press into the calling of Jesus on your life.
The ancient vikings believed that even if they lived a life of service to their king, even if they obeyed and fought without failure but died without their sword in hand… they would not be welcomed into their afterlife. The ancient Samurai believed if their sword was unsheathed without drawing the blood of their enemy… they were forever shamed. While the spiritual beliefs of these cultures was at best misguided, I believe we can still learn from them. My first book “The War of Hearts” was originally entitled “The Dirty Sword”. The Holy Spirit placed within me the cry that upon our death many of us return our “Sword of The Spirit” clean and unused as if it was a prized decoration for our mantle. Decades ago my father decided to return a dirty sword upon his death. I made the same decision decades after he did. Through the grace and empowering of the Holy Spirit we decided not to live in the the darkness, not to live in the mundane, but to stand sword in hand and beckon the supernatural. We decided much like the viking and the samurai that we would die sword in hand fighting for the Kingdom of Heaven, fighting for those who could not fight for themselves. There is a darkness in the world fighting for the hearts of men, there is a “war of hearts” and I promise you… you have a place in it. I’m proud to say that’s exactly how my father left this world. All those that knew him well know he died on the front lines, sword… in hand. He refused to let go of it at any cost. Not even for a moment. Up until the day he died he “burned the midnight oil” as he used to say. He worked tirelessly in ministry, to further the Kingdom. Not for himself or his legacy but for the impoverished nations around the world, for America, for those who have yet to hear the gospel preached. He was indeed a force to be reckoned with.
Like the geniuses that came before him my father’s greatest strength was at times his greatest weakness. This is often true of those who are gifted great talent. Sometimes his drive separated him from his family. Sometimes he moved too quickly and left others behind. Often times he found himself alone on the front lines. If I could humbly add to my father’s heart cry for the church… move to the front lines, but don’t go alone! In the months leading to my father’s death he told me in a text message “I’m a one man show…” and in a phone conversations just weeks before he died, in a moment of discouragement he told me “I have no help… I am all alone.” I lovingly corrected him. I let him know that we are indeed with him even if we can’t move as fast as him. My father was a man of wisdom, but he didn’t have all wisdom. Only the Holy Spirit has that. He was a man just like you and me, a man God used despite his faults and his failures. He frequently felt like those around him didn’t support him. He was told constantly “I will join you in Central America… When I have a paid vacation.” Or “When I retire…” or “When I have the money…” There was always a reason why people were unable to join him at the front lines. So he decided if he had too, he would go alone. If not going was the other option, I’m glad he did what was necessary to get to the front lines. He set an example for the world. “Burn bright!” He used to say. He knew that burning bright often meant you burned for a shorter time. He accepted this and selflessly burned bright so that the world would see the Light of Jesus. Despite what it cost him.
Some of the last words Jesus spoke before ascending to the Father was in John 17. Jesus says… “I pray that they will all be one, just as you and I are one… May they experience such perfect unity that the world will know that you sent me…” Today, in the war that rages for the hearts of men, I compel you… in the memory of my father, move to the front lines! Don’t burry your sword and keep it safe as the servant buried his Talents in the “Parable of the Talents” of Matthew 25. May your sword be dirty and worn, may it be used and may you die with it in hand. But may your sword become many, may you swing it surrounded by the brothers and sisters you brought with you to the front lines. Don’t sacrifice unity to get there, bring with you an army of swords against the darkness of this world.
Today, in the memory of my father I grip my hand tighter around my sword, I ask that you do as well, and if you haven’t yet… Pick it up. You will give account for it one day. When your pendulum stops swinging… do not return a clean sword to the foot of the throne of our Father. Draw blood in the kingdom of Darkness. Free those in bondage who await freedom. Die on the front lines surrounded by those you brought with you. I do not want to put off until tomorrow what I can can do today.
Dad, I love you… we miss you… and when we too are done with our race, but I promise you not before that day, we will lay down our sword with yours. And dad… your sword was not then and will not ever be alone. We were always with you here at the front lines, fighting… we may not have been next to you, shoulder to shoulder, you may not have been able to see us. But Mom, Faith, Charity, and I don’t know anything but the front lines. You raised us there even if my pain caused me to walk away for a time, I too was thrusted to the front like you, just in a different way. I wish I could have communicated that to you while you were here. I spent years trying. In truth, I too felt alone most of the time. My dream was to fight along side of each other. Shoulder to shoulder, It was and still is the deepest of my desires. But in your absence war here at the front lines is still raging. Salicia and I are teaching Jackson and Finley how to use their sword. You and your memory are mentioned daily in our household. “Can’t never did nothing!” Is still questionable grammar, but we use it anyway. Salicia is still fighting for her life, but she never quits, there is a fight inside of her that matches or surpasses the fight in the Ford family. Mom is in Nicaragua as I write this. Dad, you would be so very proud of her. Charity is still in Nicaragua too. Faith is publishing and writing in the News Break. Things haven’t been easy since you’ve been gone, in fact they’ve gotten harder, but I am still fighting for unity. I’m sorry for all the times you felt in the cross hairs of my fight and for all the times my fight failed to show the Love He show us. And dad, you should know… I am called to be an author.
