Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Eight: A Father’s Ultimate Power

Fathers have been on my mind a lot lately, in both good and not-so-good ways, and not just because it is Fathers’ Day. But I am writing about it because it is Fathers’ Day. Because I am feeling the need to sort through the “father issue” a little bit. And I know I need to tread carefully here.

Let me first state openly that I have an amazing father. I know there are no perfect fathers in the world. In fact, there are no perfect humans of any kind. But when I think of my father, there is not a single thing I would change about my relationship with him, or the role he has played in my life. I can honestly say I have zero complaints. Maybe that is at least partly because I have chosen to have zero complaints. My mother taught me to embrace the good in everyone, and I think I have gotten pretty good at that part of life. That said, I am certain there were times when I was growing up that I wasn’t necessarily “complaint-free” when it came to my dad. I was a teenager, after all, and I do remember my dad teasing me relentlessly about turning 13, like I was going to suddenly transform into a teeming mass of uncontrollable girl hormone drama or something. Which I don’t think I ever did, honestly. But if his “Oh, no, you are almost a TEENAGER!” teasing bothered me then, I now remember it fondly. And probably have done that or other annoying things to my own kids since then. But my point is that I appreciate and love my dad. He makes it easy for me to do so. Not every dad does.

If I have learned anything about fathers in my life thus far, it is how much power they have to influence the lives of their children. For both good and ill, and whether they show up or not. When I got married, I tried to choose a man who would “be a good father.” I also hoped I would “be a good mother,” but at 21 years old, I really had no idea what those things actually meant, and neither did he. Parenthood is one of those things that you learn as you go, and we both did the best that we could. I knew that he loved each and every one of our children with all of his heart. But everyone is different when it comes to expressing that love, and the message is not always effectively delivered.

Shortly after I got divorced, when the tear in the fabric of my family was still fresh and I was stressing about balancing the new dynamic between myself and my kids’ father, a friend whose opinion I trust told me something that has stayed with me. And which has proven to be true. He said, “Kids are pretty good at recognizing which parent is going to show up, and which parent will get their own needs met first, at all costs.” (Or words to that effect.)

I truly believed and hoped that both of us, as parents, would be showing up for our kids in the aftermath, but sadly, this has not been the case. I can tell you that I understand and empathize with many of the reasons, but the fact of the matter is that “not there” still means “not there,” regardless of the reasons. And the damage to the kids gets done. I understand that many fathers (and mothers) are battling demons that prevent them from showing up, and I am glad it is not my job to judge. I feel like my job as a mother is to remind my kids of the good things, and to teach them (hopefully by example) how to embrace and appreciate and remember those things about their father. I admit I am not always good at this. When there has been so much hurt and pain, it can be really hard to let go of blame and embrace compassion. But it is the absolute best way to recover from the hurt.

The picture at the top of this page is of my youngest son and his father, about six years before the divorce. In this photo, I can see the love, and the fun, and the good in the man that used to be here. And I know that if I had time to dig through all of our old photos, I would find others like this, of all six of my children. I know that their father loves them, and I want so very much for them to know it, too. But I am not the one who can make them feel that. It breaks my heart, but it is out of my control. I do not have the power that their father has. But maybe I can remind them of what they used to know about him.

Today in church, a story was told of a group of children who wrote letters to their dads for Fathers’ Day, and overwhelmingly, the number one positive thing the kids said was “I like my Dad because he plays with me.” As I have dealt with the “fatherlessness” in the lives of my own kids in recent years, and now my grandkids as well, I am deeply grateful for the men and boys who have stepped in, in a variety of ways, both large and seemingly small, to fill the gaps that have been left. The ones that I, as a mother, am just not equipped to fill. My adult sons take care of their younger brother and their sisters, as well as each other, and all of my boys are fantastic uncles to their two little nephews. Why? Because they play together. Whether it be music, games, or whatever is fun for them. They spend time together, and the “fathering” gets done, if imperfectly. And there is nothing wrong with imperfection. To achieve it, all that’s required is to show up and take part. And there is unimaginable power in that.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Seven: Understanding the Gravity of The Situation

Gravity has been in my face lately. And I don't just mean showing there. Although it definitely is doing that. But it has also been on my mind. In fact, I have been trying to write this post on gravity for months, and have not been able to complete it. Today I will, even though this powerful force I am attempting to write about is working very hard on me, making me not want to move at all. In fact, it is because this force is working on me that I will finish this message. For gravity to be a power for good, you have to know how and when to resist it. Not defy it, mind you. Sometimes you hear of gymnasts or other athletes having “defied gravity,” but this is not accurate. They have just gotten very skilled at properly resisting it. Writing this post today, when I don’t feel like doing anything, is me resisting it on only the most basic level; moving my fingers, and hopefully my brain. And not necessarily in that order.

This past Monday was not a good day for me. In addition to having a wicked cold and dealing with some personal stress, a terrible thing happened in Boston, and it affected me profoundly, as it surely did everyone who watched it unfold. Someone planted bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. The final toll of human damage has not even been assessed, and maybe never will be, really. Because the injured and grieving will be dealing with the permanent, personal, and private aftermath for years to come. But what does this have to do with gravity? Bear with me.

There are a few reasons this particular tragedy affected me the way it did, beyond the obvious. One is that I have walked the street where this took place, and it is a sentimental memory for me. It was about 12 years ago, on Thanksgiving weekend, and I had flown out to spend the weekend with my husband, who was working in Boston at the time. We literally spent the weekend walking the city, and it was a kind of other-worldly experience for me. It was possibly the best weekend of my 23-year marriage. It was snowing much of the time, but not terribly cold, and we visited some unbelievably gorgeous cathedrals, and the surprisingly small, but tangibly sacred Granary Graveyard, (pictured below) which is nestled in between some older buildings, and is the final earthly resting place of folks like John Adams, Paul Revere, much of Ben Franklin’s family, and Mother Goose. (Yup, she’s real.)

I found this place to be inspiring. As if many of those souls might have been present while I was there, and I felt the profound depth of their sacrifices and contributions for the benefit of my priceless freedom. As I looked at the above photo, I found myself back there, lingering, wanting to read every single headstone, and the thought struck me that a graveyard is the place where we settle our final tab with gravity. In fact, the words “grave” and “gravity” are related, and can both be used to describe the seriousness (or weightiness) of a situation. If it is gravity’s purpose to keep us from floating off the planet before our test here is complete, it is also gravity that reclaims our physical bodies as part of the Earth again. I find some comfort in that. And I have a soft spot in my heart for Boston because of my experience there.

Another reason for the situation in Boston having affected me deeply is that I have wanted to complete a marathon for years, and I have started and stopped the training process many times. I have paid entry fees for events I never made it to. Not as a runner, but as a walker. With hopes that after having gotten rid of some significant weight, I might someday attempt running again. This dynamic has much to do with my own personal lifelong dance with gravity. (Which currently feels like a really slow waltz.) Every step that any of us take, walking or running, is an exercise in resisting gravity. From the time we take that first tentative step as infants. The more we resist gravity, the stronger and more balanced we become; the less we resist it, the weaker and less balanced we become. Lately, I have felt rather weak, and slightly unbalanced.

Marathon runners are very, very good at resisting gravity, and therefore strong, and I have great respect for that. The Boston Marathon requires a qualifying time, so is a somewhat stratospheric dream for me. But I know people who have done it, and I have many friends and family members who have completed other marathons. The photo at the top of this page is of my sister, Melinda, when she was in Moab, Utah last month to complete the Canyonlands Half Marathon. I thought it was a perfect photo for this blog, so she gave me permission to use it. I myself entered the inaugural Valley of the Sun Half Marathon, way back in 2002, somewhat spontaneously. I was walking 5-7 miles daily at the time, but had not gone farther than that in one stretch since I was a teenager. My goal was to just finish, and to try and maintain my 3.5-4mph pace to the end. I achieved this goal, finishing in 3 hours and 33 minutes. My brother, who had run it and finished long before me, drove back out onto the course with my niece and nephew to cheer me on toward the end. This meant a lot to me, and helped me keep going. I was ready to crumple at mile 9 and I lost a toenail in the process, but crossing that finish line was one of the more exhilarating moments of my life. So endurance runners and the people who cheer for them have a special place in my heart, and watching the footage of what happened at that Boston finish line was really heartbreaking for me.

The news site I was on kept repeating video of the initial blast on a loop, and there was one elderly runner who collapsed at the force of the blast, whose legs just looked like rubber when he went down. He was ok, just scraped up a bit, but people mere feet from him were not. I later learned he was from Everett, Washington, where I used to live, and where one of my children was born. He was 78 and it was his 3^rd marathon. Watching this image repeat reminded me of one recent morning when I got out of bed and was taken to the ground almost immediately by the charley-horse from HELL in my calf. Yes, I did say hell, and capitalize it, even, because it hurt that bad. It was like somebody stabbed me in the leg with an ice pick. Between trying not to spill the cup of water in my hand and collapsing from the pain, I had zero defense against the powers that be. Gravity was free to face-plant me into the carpet without any interference on my part. In hindsight, I maybe should have let the water spill, but regardless, gravity and I were not friends that morning.

When pain or other forces hit you when your resistance is down, gravity will take you to the ground. A favorite Disney movie in my family is “The Sword in the Stone.” There is a scene where the young Arthur is bounding through the woods and asks the aging Merlin what gravity is. Merlin answers that gravity is what makes you fall down. Says Arthur, “You mean, like a stumble, or a trip?” “No,” replies Merlin, “it's the force that pulls you downward.”

Like many other seemingly obvious things in life, as I get older, the basic principles I ignored in science class begin to interest me profoundly. Usually when I start to see their real-world application to me. As I have been ruminating on gravity, I have realized that it does not always show its force suddenly and painfully; more often, it is the result of its steady and constant force over time that we see manifested in our lives.

For those of us who have passed the 50-yard line of life, and/or are dealing with excess weight on our bodies, seeing and feeling the more long-term effects of gravity on our physical selves can be almost more painful than being knocked to the ground. But we learn to live with it. We spend our entire lives moving in opposition to this powerful force, without even thinking about it, while at the same time being kept from drifting away by it. We have to resist it in order to move at all, but we cannot defy it, as much as we sometimes wish we could. It is one of those irrevocable God-given laws that protect us when we respect it, and can destroy us when we don’t. What an amazingly powerful balancing factor, and part of the great refining fire that is life on this planet. Those who try to defy gravity usually don’t survive. But those who respectfully and consistently resist it benefit immensely and are strengthened from within.

I read that the 78-year-old marathoner from Everett, Washington got up off the ground after being treated by medical personnel, and covered the remaining few yards to the finish line. And that several other marathoners continued on to local hospitals to donate blood for the victims. And countless other people got up and ran toward the chaos to assist the fallen in any way they could. They understood the gravity of the situation and they took action. And that is the kind of resistance that God intended.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Six: Know When To Submit

There is some duality in this title. It comes both from my position as a Writer, and as a Mere Human. (Please, feel free to juxtapose those two titles against each other in any way you choose…) I was sitting in church when the word “submit” began rolling around in my consciousness, begging for some examination. My initial thoughts on this had more to do with the writer’s perspective, because I write all the time and never submit anything for publication. I am a procrastinator and a bit of a coward. I never feel like anything I write is “really ready” to give up, to toss into the clutches of the Big Bad Judgmental World. So I write my rambling little blog posts for family and friends, and I write song lyrics and leave them in a notebook, and I write about how I need to get serious about my writing. And I plan to submit, but I never do.

So I was sitting in church, and I was thinking about the “why” attached to this reluctance to submit, and wondering exactly what it is I am afraid of. Wondering why I feel the need to polish my words to perfection, when I know perfection is not possible. One definition of “submit” is “to give over or yield to the power or authority of another.” Which can be a scary thing when it comes to what I have written, but honestly, the things that I have put out there for public consumption have actually been fairly well-received. I used to write letters to the editor of the local newspaper on a semi-regular basis, and every one of them was published. Once, I sent two poems to a poetry website, and they were included in a “coffee table collection,” which was then peddled to everyone who submitted material. I bought my copy, and can technically say that my poetry is in a book that was bound and sold, so therefore, was published. But I know these things don’t really count. They are the equivalent of sticking my toe in the water and saying I went for a swim. Not really true submission.

Anyway, on Sunday I was thinking about these things. About knowing when to submit, (both literally and, um... "literarily") and about the meaning of true submissiveness, which some people mistakenly equate with weakness. And I jotted down a couple of notes, came home, and set aside the idea. Until today, when I got some rather painful clarity about a thing I have struggled with for quite some time, and realized that the kind of submitting I needed to do was going to be much, much harder than sending a manuscript off to a publisher. 

Have you ever gotten a message that you did not want to accept? I mean, REALLY did not want to accept? But knew that you must, in order to move forward? Even when it flies in the face of everything you thought you had been told was true? Today was that.

If, like me, you believe in a Higher Power, one who created you and knows, over the long haul, what is best for you, then you must learn the art of graceful submission. You must. I must. Submitting to the will of that higher power can sometimes mean parting with what (or who) you really believe you want and love. It can mean surrendering your hope, and hope can be a stubborn force. It’s hard to know when to part with it. To be able to see whether it is holding you up or holding you back, and when to separate it from a desired or imagined outcome that is clearly not manifesting itself. 

And then to let go. With both hands. 

It’s a free-fall at first, and it’s terrifying. And then there is peace. Because you realize that the misplaced hope you were fiercely holding onto was, in fact, a burden. A burden that He has already agreed to bear, if you will just part with it. So relax. And submit, already.