Happy Father's Day

Last Sunday was Father's day and this year I tried to make it special by painting a photograph of my dad, sister, and me. It was taken in 1994 when Dad was stick skinny sporting the way thick glasses, my sister was still developing her fashion sense (plaid on plaid is not so advisable), and I was, as my sister graciously put it when I showed her the photo last week, "such a little dork." My face is familiar but my expression is not. Where did that rambunctious, carefree grin wander off to? Do I ever wear that expression on my face anymore? I hope it's not lost, and if it is, that I can find it again.

My father is flawed, as you and I are flawed, but I have never doubted his love. Has he been harsh in the past? Yes. Incredibly hard to please? Yes. Cruel? Sometimes, seemingly, yes. But in spite of all that, I am reminded of my earliest memory of my father. It's a good one mixed in with some tough love. From my journal:

"I think Dad had a soft spot for me when I was younger. My first really clear memory of him was being held while I was crying. Big gentle hands wiping my tears and holding me and walking in circles around the West Virginia house living room. I think it was dinner time. This memory blurs with another one so I'm not sure if it's part of the same memory or a different one. I'm crying, he's holding me, but then he tells me that I shouldn't cry anymore--to be stronger and that in the future when I do cry, he won't be there to wipe away my tears."

When I was little, that last part confused and upset me. Not there to console me? Did that mean he would stop being Dad? It was his brand of tough love, and sometimes it tasted bitter, but I think he recognized early on that I needed to be less dependent and more willing to stand up on my own. It still rings true. At church on Father's Day, there came a point in the service when we were supposed to greet the people around us. I shook hands with a couple of men, but for one man I decided to wish him a happy father's day, even though there were no children with him. He was an older gentleman with what appeared to be his wife, so I assumed that perhaps he was a father. When I said it, he didn't say thank you. He just kind of looked at me and then sat down. During the sermon the pastor congratulated the fathers, and then said this: "For some of you Father's day is not a happy day. Perhaps you never had a father, or memories of your father are not good ones." The wife of the man turned to her husband eying him, and he tilted his head knowingly. Later in the sermon the pastor shared a statistic that children with the mere presence of a father living in the house were less likely to become juvenile delinquents (or something like that) and again they eyed each other in agreement. It made me sad. Here was obviously not a very happy father's day. I don't know the story, but I recognized their glances of acknowledgment. This statistic had somehow been proven correct in his life. It made me grateful for my own father, and it made me realize that what I thought was cruel isn't really cruel. What's really cruel is being deprived of a father, period. I'm glad that this injustice doesn't have to be a permanent condition, and that Jesus is a comfort for the widow, a shepherd for the lost, a father to the fatherless.