My
Father’s Daughter
I recently attempted to
find an acquaintance from my time in Uganda. I located her
because she wrote a book several years ago. Victoria Wilson was
the most fascinating African woman I ever met.
Victoria’s father, John Wilson was a Vice
President for Texaco Oil. Despite the privileges of money, he
expected his children to fulfill a higher purpose in life. He
was a strict disciplinarian, committed to raising children who
would live in relationship with and serve God.
I found him intimidating when we met in
Kampala. (1982) I was in the presence of greatness and I knew
it.
In her book, (My
Father’s Daughter, Servant Warrior Publishing, 1994) Vicky
writes passionately about the biblical mandates given to
fathers.
“There is no brighter light than the one that
is lit from within. A father’s primary function on this earth is
to be a reflection of our heavenly Father. He is to love and
nurture his family. He must be there for them, provide for their
needs, protect them, and guide them in the ways of
righteousness.”
There is an example in her book.
One Saturday night when 15-year old Vicky was
home on holiday there was a party she really wanted to attend.
The kids were several years older than her and Mr. Wilson said
absolutely not. Vicky wasn’t deterred. When her parents went out
for the evening she sneaked out to the party.
The handsome host immediately set his eyes
and desires on her. They danced all night and several hours
passed in a blur… until panicked cries rang out from the kids
who knew her father.
“Mr. Wilson! Mr. Wilson!”
Vicky’s tall, imposing father looked neither
right nor left. He walked straight to the place where his young
daughter stood wishing the floor would swallow her forever.
“The ride back home was very tense. There was
an impregnable wall of silence. I couldn’t even imagine what was
going through his mind. One thing was for sure—there was no way
out of this one. When we arrived back home… the house was very
quiet.
“My father headed straight to my mother’s
crystal cabinet. I silently watched him select a magnificent
glass, one of a set of six my mother had coveted from the moment
she laid eyes on them in one of her women’s magazines. She had
finally arranged for them to be sent to her from London and they
brought her great joy.
“From where I stood, I could see the glass
sparkle as my father held it up to the light. ‘Do you see this?’
he asked, looking directly into my eyes.
“I held my breath and nodded. He paused for a
split second... then he opened his fingers. The glass crashed to
the floor breaking into a million pieces. My eyes grew wide. My
mouth fell open. My father was watching me piercingly, making
sure I registered the seriousness of his action.
“Our eyes locked. ’That’s your life. You drop
it once and you’ll never be able to put it back together again.’
“While I contemplated his words he fetched a
broom and dust pan from the kitchen. ‘Now go to your room and
think about it.’”
It takes a strong father to transform his
teenage daughter’s disobedience into a permanent visual life
lesson, one that would shape her into a strong and passionate
woman of integrity and purpose.
Vicky went on to write, “My mother demanded
perfection. My father demanded excellence.”
John Wilson was murdered in 1986 when thugs
stole his car outside Kampala, Uganda, but his legacy lives on
through his children.