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.
