It is not an easy thing to write a final testimonial to one’s own father. He would be embarrassed to hear himself praised when he lived his whole Christian life praising the Lord and encouraging others to do so. But it is a good thing, a right thing, I believe, to give “honor to whom honor is due.”
Boyd Nicholson was not only my father; he was my mentor, my confidant, my co-laborer, my example, and my friend. I expected it to be much harder to let him go, but God’s matchless grace (which Dad never tired of declaring) has proven again to be true. The Lord Himself promises that His “grace is sufficient” for us. He has not short-changed us. Nor can we underestimate the prayers of God’s people or the comfort of the Scriptures. “He faileth not.”
Dad was a Scot who gave up his homeland for a Canadian bride, a homebody who said thousands of good-byes to travel the world wooing a Bride for the Saviour. He was an old airman who exchanged piloting for helping others navigate through life to the celestial city. And he was an artist who gave up his art career to paint word pictures of Christ and the cross, of heaven and home (see word painting on next page).
He seems to have been one of the last of a breed. He was part of a generation of intrepid men of God who were hallmarked by at least three outstanding characteristics.
They had a passion for the gospel that led them to plow and sow and weep and reap in all the wide world’s field. They did not flinch when derided on the street corner, or when they were rejected as they went door to door. They just kept at it, and Dad and his generation saw thousands saved. They never got over the pure, sweet gospel because they never got over being saved themselves. Their attitude of wonder is expressed in the words of one of Dad’s close friends, Jack Trotter, who would shake his head after hearing the gospel again and say, “How did we ever get in?” They longed for others to get in, too.
They had a loyalty to the assembly, to meeting in the simple way which they believed the Word of God taught. Their loyalty to local church life was directly linked to their loyalty to the Head of the church Himself. Although they knew many fine believers who felt free to bear the names of various denominations, these men believed with all their hearts that only one Man had died for them, and that He deserved the place of honor. His name alone should be named among His people. When others got miffed and left the assembly in a huff, they wept a while, then wiped their tears away, picked up their tools, and went back to work, repairing the breach in the wall and then going on from there.
They also had a holy reverence for the things of God. They walked softly in the Lord’s presence. They were awed that they could come week by week into the Holiest of all to remember Him. And they knew what they were doing when they got there. They had a deep respect for the Bible and never spoke lightly from the pulpit. In short, it was no idle thing to call them men of God.
They took the Lord and His work seriously. Many of them (and their wives) sacrificed greatly for Him, but thought little of it. On one occasion, shortly after Dad was called to preach full time (and things were pretty slim financially), he received an offer to take an executive post with Mercedes Benz of Canada. He left the letter lying on his desk and went off to preach at a children’s meeting in Simcoe, Ontario. At least one child professed faith in Christ that night. When Dad arrived home, somehow the letter had lost whatever appeal it might have had, compared to the salvation of an eternal soul.
Dad never thought he was anything out of the ordinary, a man with a limited education, an unknown in the world. But he knew that his God could do extraordinary things through ordinary men and he set about, by God’s grace, to see Him do it. And I think He did.