This is our final father's day story, as we salute dads on their day! It is another one taken from a Chicken Soup for the Soul awhile ago.

As I have been typing these notes, I think about those of us who had terrific fathers, grandpas, husbands who are wonderful dads to us or our own children. But what about those of us who didn't? What about dads who weren't always loving, kind, generous?? Or even worse what about those who weren't even there. For a number of reasons, they might not have been part of our growing up days??

Dads, like moms, are on a continuim........some are absolutely terrific (a 100% parent) and on the other end of the spectrum (not in our lives at all). Most parents fall some place in the middle........terrifc personality but maybe does a terrible job of money management; good provider but maybe has a terrible temper and takes out frustrations on his family, to the place it is almost abusive.

If you have  parents, grandparents, a spouse who fall into the "most" category and this week's stories don't come close to what you have experienced, don't despair. I think our "less-than-perfect" mother/father relationships teach us to be thankful for what we DID have and to recognize what could or should have been different. And any and all experiences can point us to turn our attentions to a Heavenly Father.........who has the anwers, the care, the love which we may or may not have gotten from earthly relationships!

For the record, this is my first Father's Day without my dad, who died in July last year at age 85!

Marking the Trail
By Tim Chaney as told to
LeAnn Thieman

I sat in the front pew holding hands with my mom and sister as the choir sang, "I go before you always, come follow me. . . ." I took a few deep breaths to quiet my pounding heart and allowed my mind to wander to one of my favorite memories.

I loved that early morning hike with Dad. The smell of Rocky Mountain pine and the chilly air filled me with energy as I hustled behind him on the trail. I had hiked with Dad a dozen times in my eleven years, but I still worried when the trail disappeared.

"Is there a trail, Dad? I can't find it." I ducked under the aspen branch he held back with his large, sturdy frame. "The scouts and their dads following us are never gonna find us," I said, with mixed delight and concern. "If you weren't here, how would I ever find the way?"

He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We'll mark our trail."

On his instruction, I gathered rocks and stacked them in a pile. Next, we arranged stones to form an arrow pointing uphill. "This shows anybody behind us which way to go," he coached.

Around the next bend I collected stones and formed them in another small heap. "Now they can follow us easily," I beamed.

We repeated these rock formations several times as I panted and stumbled over the steep terrain, following his big footprints in the soft dirt.

Feeling more exhilarated than tired, we reached the summit. There we sat in silence on the rocky peak listening to nature's concert. Wildflowers blanketed the meadow stretching between the rolling foothills. Dad gestured toward an eagle soaring in the cobalt sky.

I knew my dad created these moments especially for me. I was always the youngest scout and frequently missed out on adventures my older brother and sister experienced. Dad loved his role as an adult leader because it allowed him to combine the three loves of his life - family, faith and the great outdoors.

Storm clouds gathered over a faraway ridge. Thunder rumbled as the distant clouds collided in a clash of lightning.

"Did I ever tell you about how I really found God during the war?" Dad asked, breaking the silence. I knew he enjoyed telling that story almost as much I as enjoyed hearing it over and over again.

I knew it by heart. He had taken a break from maintaining the generators that provided electricity for his platoon. Sitting atop a hill, he watched the Earth burning in patches below. When a magnificent lightning storm illuminated the blackened sky, he realized no man-made electricity could compare to that of the Divine Creator. "That's when I knew, and I have never doubted Him since," Dad nodded with a smile.

I reached for his hand and held it tight as we watched power sparks in the distance.

When he said it was time to leave, I groaned in protest. I didn't want this treasured moment to end. He reminded me that, while we loved the trail, there are often better things at the end. "Like Mom and her pancakes waiting back at camp!"

Before beginning our trek back, Dad arranged rocks in a circle then placed a single rock in the center. "This marks the end of the trail," he said. "This will tell those who follow that we went home."

Several years later, Dad was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease. His most difficult path of life lay ahead. We learned all we could about the incurable, debilitating illness, while Dad's ability to eat and speak gradually diminished. Accepting his impending death with courage and faith, he still showed me the way.

He led me through earning my Eagle Scout award.

I followed in his footsteps when I was confirmed in my faith.

He guided me through the rocky path of high-school graduation and choosing a college.

He gathered me with my mom, grandma, aunt and uncle to pray together after church every Sunday.

In written notes, he told us that, while he loved life's journey, he looked forward to eternity with the Master Electrician.

My sister tugged gently on my hand. The choir ended the refrain, and the piano played softly as Father Bob offered the final funeral prayer. Dozens of scouts and former scouts came forward, placing a circle of rocks on the altar. Together my sister, brother and I placed the single rock in the center.

It was the end of the trail.