Zambia Hunt

Today, December 15 marks the 17th anniversary of the death of my father, Larry Hunt.

My earliest memories of my dad were in the Village of Brooks, Maine. I have a few memories of the first five years of my life in Brooks and a few random black-and-white photos of Dad with my brother James and me. I am grateful for the heritage of faith that my dad and mom instilled in me from the time I was born.

My dad was a church planter, and after preaching at the local Brooks Congregational Church for a few weeks, he was invited not to return. His declaration of the authority of Scripture and his passion to see people repent and believe in Jesus ruffled the feathers of people in this small town who claimed to be Christians but did not truly know Christ. As a result, my dad and mom rented an upstairs apartment in Brooks, and Dad started Brooks Bible Church. I remember the day we set a fire to burn off the grass and brush around the lot where the building would be constructed. I remember him building the little wooden church building with his own hands. Although I have no memory of any specific message my dad preached or any lesson he taught from the Bible, it was in Brooks that the Lord convicted me of my sin, I repented, and God gave me eternal life. I’m thankful my dad shared the gospel with me.

Just before my fifth birthday, our family moved from Maine to Virginia. We would later move to Colorado, back to Maine, and a few years later to Oklahoma. I didn’t understand it all then, but Dad was not well. Doctors said he had a “nervous breakdown.” God sustained me and taught me many things through the relationally chaotic years from the age of 5 to 18.

My dad passed away at the age of 63. On this anniversary of his death, I am 58. I do remember that before his death, he expressed his pride in the fact that two of his sons were pastors. Today, I feel a level of sadness that the decisions of my father led to his instability, removal from ministry, and loss of testimony. I grew up stepping into some of the roles my father should have filled. I missed out on having my father as a role model, spiritual mentor, and friend. My dad also missed out on the joys of a relationship with his grandchildren.

The sadness I feel today when thinking of my father motivates me to keep short accounts with God, walk in humility and faith, and make the discipleship of my children and grandchildren a priority.