Father's Day

It’s Father’s Day.

Twice as I walked into the kitchen the ongoing conversation come to an awkward halt, my wife and kids smiling nonchalantly. I’ve been good not to look under the blanket hiding large boxes in the bedroom corner (how’s that for self control?!).

Despite the commercial hoopla, something about Father's Day makes me feel warm inside.

Becoming a father was very important to me.

It wasn’t easy.

For ten years my wife and I tried to have kids. Those dreams dimmed in ‘87 when she had an infection resulting in the surgical removal of her left fallopian tube.

In 1989 there was laughing and hugging and excited phone calls when Brenda tested positive for a new life within her. There were fears and tears when we discovered it a dangerous tubal pregnancy.

We went ahead with the move to the house in Canby, the one with the empty swing set. That was 1991, a grey year, an overcast season in our lives. We began attending a church led by a pastor my age. The first sermon we heard from him included the announcement that he and his wife were expecting their first child after many years of prayer.

A year later we refinanced that house to hire lawyers, and do a home study, and buy the things we needed to adopt a child. I took that pregnant teen to her appointments, made sure she had enough to eat. And when that little boy was born in August, on Brenda’s birthday, gave him my name.

Three and a half months later, on the morning I took him to see me cut down his first Christmas tree, he died. That was 1992, a dark year. A year that was winter for us.

A year and a half later, after refinancing the house again and jumping through local, state, interstate, and international hoops, we stood in a living room in Fort Meyers, Florida. “Mama Annie,” dashing between laundry, cooking spaghetti, taking out the trash, and running the orphanage, pointed out one of my new sons. He was across a patio, on the other side of two sets of sliding glass doors, and jumping with glee to see me. He was shouting “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

My heart nearly burst, it was so full.

Becoming a father was very important to me.

It wasn’t easy.

There have been struggles. Many of those struggles I have shared on these electronic pages. There have been greater joys.

Being a father is very important to me.

I have a program at school to teach kids (and parents) about study skills. It has a lot of features to it, honed over a half dozen years. One feature is a talk I give to help the kids look at what they are doing from different perspective. A part of that little speech includes how their parents want to help them. I tell the kids I know they think adults have some secret knowledge. That there must be a time when someone gives them the secrets of adults which changes them forever, giving them the power, the authority.

I tell the kids that they are right. That there is a moment when adults do get that secret.

I tell them that there was a moment when someone handed their parent a small bundle. And that little bundle was them. That their parent looked down on them and something clicked. Something within their hearts changed and they were no longer the person they had been. That in a single moment all their previous identity had been swept away. They were no longer man, or woman. They were no longer employee or employer, or son, or husband, or man. They were father.

Being a father is very important to me. I dreamed and prayed for it for years. One pregnancy nearly killed my wife. That is a hurt that echoes still. Brenda cried the other night during a show about tubal pregnancies. I have had the dream of a child granted, and had it taken away. I have two children now which give me the worries and challenges and joys and grief of parenting. It is the best of all gigs. Being a father is very important to me.

My son Isaac tells me he is sorry for other kids.

“I feel bad for kids in other families who just get borned. We’re adopted. We got picked!”

Every night I sit on the bed beside my sons, and talk gently about their day. I place a little anointing oil on a finger tip and I pray a prayer for them. I pray for protection, for rest, for the gifts from Him which will help them through the coming day. I give them a quick hug or a small tickle, and tuck them in.

One is a junior, one is a freshman. And though they are practically young men, they are still my boys.

I would do anything for these kids.

I would gladly take their suffering, except I know that suffering usually comes from our own mistakes and they need to learn how to deal with their choices.

I would gladly pay their fines, if the debt was too big for them to pay and there was no other way for them to move on.

I would gladly put myself in harm’s way if it meant protecting them.

All of these things are acts my father has done for me.

Not my biological father.

But my Lord did those things. The triune God sent a part of Himself, His son, to suffer in my place. He paid my debt. He put Himself in harm’s way.

So, on this Father’s Day I have a present for my dad. Not the one in Southern California, but the one everywhere.

Dear Father:

Thank you for all You have done for me.

Thank you for giving me my family, this awesome responsibility. I hope the job I am doing with them pleases You.

Thank you for the many times You have rescued me from the difficulties in my life, even from my own mistakes, my own sins.

There isn’t anything I have that is truly mine to give You... except for one thing. I give You my heart. I dedicate my life to You. You have given me free will, the ability to truly choose. And I choose truly. I choose to follow wherever You will lead.

Thank You Lord.

I pray that the life I live will be pleasing to You.

--Amen.