Fathers go to work when they don’t want to, [...]]]> I write this on the eve of Father’s Day–my first as a grandfather and my son’s first as a father. Thus I evaluate fatherhood by my own experience, both failure and success, and offer a few characteristics of the ideal father I wish I had better exhibited:

Fathers go to work when they don’t want to, listen when they need to, and sacrifice when they ought to.

Fathers love their families without responding to unlovely attitudes or actions. And they endeavor to live in such a way that they don’t have to regret their own words and deeds.

Fathers cry tenderly over sick pets, bury them when they die–and comfort their grieving children. And fathers who have suffered the loss of a child or a mate struggle to rebuild normal lives despite the overwhelming emptiness and seeming unfairness.

Fathers laugh at children’s jokes that aren’t funny–and sputter to keep a straight face when children’s serious efforts go humorously awry. They embrace a child’s crude, handmade Valentine as if it were a Rembrandt.

Quick to hear, slow to speak and slow to anger, father’s discipline in love but never ridicule or embarrass.

Fathers say “I was wrong” more often than “You were wrong.” They easily confess their own mistakes and give their best efforts to straighten them out. Fathers generously sprinkle “I love you” and I’m proud of you” into their conversations.

Fathers readily tear down their own dreams to build up their children’s. And they remain faithful to their flock despite the lure of “greener pastures.”

Fathers learn to do important stuff like toss balls, dash through sprinklers and lie on the driveway to gaze at the stars. They bend low to kiss away hurts and wipe away tears. They weep at graduations and weddings, realizing how quickly their children have grown up and away.

Rather than “stuff,” fathers give better gifts to their children: patience, humility, honor, truth and duty. And they understand that respect must be earned, not demanded.

Fathers know that they may be the only visible earthly example their families will every see of an invisible heavenly Father. And they eventually realize that their greatest battles will be won on their knees, not by their bank accounts.

Fathers grow into the men their mothers dreamed they’d be.

And when results just don’t seem to come and discouragement sets in, I offer this letter from my son. A reminder of how the seeds a father sows early on may unexpectedly bloom in a different season, he graciously overlooks failure but overstates success:

“I considered what I should get you for Father’s Day but couldn’t think of anything that you would really want or need. Then I thought of something I have never given you: the respect and gratitude that you deserve. So let me thank you for all the things I have never said ‘thank you’ for:

“For being the man who took me to the hardware store on Saturday mornings to buy gum. For being the man who never missed one of my ball games, made the most of the practices and even helped coach.

“For being the man who took off work every summer to take me to BMA Camp. For being the man who was on camping trips even when no other father was.

“For being the man who every day before work was on his knees in prayer for me.

“For being the man who is always willing to offer but never forcing wisdom. “For being the man who never said, “I told you so” when I didn’t take the advice I should have.

“For being the man who freely gave me all that you had, even when I didn’t thank you.

“For being the man who is the most constant example of a Christian I have ever known. For being the man who made decisions that Mom or I never had to worry about being right or wrong.

“Thank you, Dad, for being a father who had always gone above and beyond the call of duty and never complained. You are the best role model that I could hope for, and I hope that one day I can be half the man you didn’t have to be.

“Thank you for being my dad.”

Fatherhood is more of a possession to be won than a position bestowed, an honor tempered by its share of setbacks and disappointments, a crown unfit for the fainthearted or unwilling.

Copyright 2007 James McAlister

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And to that I add a few journal snippets from Father’s Days past. —– On Friday we made another expedition to Deal Cemetery in Ladelle to [...]]]> Regular readers know our daughter Jenny, who died unexpectedly in October 1995. So in honor of Father’s Day, I share this brief essay about her that I prepared for a writing contest.

And to that I add a few journal snippets from Father’s Days past.
—–
On Friday we made another expedition to Deal Cemetery in Ladelle to decorate Jenny’s grave.

I miss Jenny and often feel sadness because I’ll never see her again in this life. She was, after all, one-third of my small flock, and I sometimes feel wronged over what seems to be her untimely death. Instead of being discouraged, however, I must learn to thank God for the 22 memorable years He gave us together.

Blind and profoundly retarded from birth, Jenny could see only with the eyes of her heart. But the future holds a particular hope, one expressed in the epitaph (from the Bible’s book of John) we had inscribed on her tombstone. When we finally stand face to face in heaven, I fully expect her to lovingly repeat those same words back to me.

But this time they will be more than mere symbols carved in cold, lifeless granite. Coming from the lips of one who never spoke a single word in her entire 22 years, I expect them to ring with the warm sweetness of all that heaven holds: “I once was blind, but now I see.” I anticipate that day and the healing it will bring.

And soon after the echoes of joy over newfound sight have died away, I expect–and even hope for–the pleasure of one word thus far denied me despite my desires and prayers to hear it. For with Jenny’s sight will come recognition of an intent face, one perceived but until then unseen. And then will come the one word fathers long to hear: “Daddy!”
—–
(1987) I received many nice presents for Father’s Day: swim suit, shorts and shirt, cap, framed picture that Barrett (age 6) had drawn, book, three tapes of music and some money from Jen. To be loved is a great reward, and I’m grateful.

(1993) I’ve had a wonderful Father’s Day breakfast. Mary and Jen gave me two missionary books to read to Barrett (age 12), and he gave me a knife just like his. I am so blessed.

(1995) I had a wonderful surprise present for Father’s Day–a Super Leatherman Tool. Because of the cost, I wouldn’t have bought one for myself, but Mary and Barrett (age 14) got one for me. And Barrett said in church that I was flexible, spending time with him and Jenny. So much here goes undone, but my time of opportunity with my children is rapidly vanishing.
—–
Times change. Diapers and infant seats quickly give way to jeans and training wheels and cars and college and independence…. and beyond.

But Father’s Day reminds me that the sometimes-rocky transition from breadwinner and trainer to counselor and friend is both necessary and non-optional.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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Bulletin Insert

Friends don't laugh at your dreams, no [...]]]> Father's Day approaches, and I'm thinking of someone in particular. We lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same church and even carpooled together. But cancer claimed him in his prime, robbing a wife and two young sons of husband and father. He was my friend, Gerald Graham.

Friends don't laugh at your dreams, no matter how farfetched. And I had a dream back then–a full-time job with a magazine I had often freelanced for. When the editor gave me a "get here as quickly as you can" summons, I booked the first flight to Chicago. A done deal, I concluded.

But just before flying out, I asked Gerald to pray with me about the situation. And that he did, right there on our carport, confidently imploring God to close my open door if we didn't need to move.

True to his word, the editor met my plane about noon the next day… only to stammer an embarrassed greeting. Just that morning, he sheepishly confessed, a fellow with perfect credentials strolled into the office–and they hired him even as I, the heir apparent, was en route. But could he still give me a tour of the area before returning home? No country boy was ever more thrilled to flee Chicago!

Gerald deeply loved his sons. Like pickpockets on holiday, tornadoes ransacked the countryside one evening as the Graham family huddled in their hall. Gerald sought to comfort the little boys' fears. "Listen," he said. "God is in control of this weather, and He will protect us." Without hesitation, Jeffrey dramatically wiped a furrowed brow and sighed deeply. "Whew! I'm glad to hear that!" Peace was instantly restored as an earthly father whispered assurances of the heavenly Father's watchcare.

When David, probably about three, fretted over whether there would be lambs in heaven, his father tenderly consoled him. David had been taught that heaven would be a happy place, and Gerald stood by that teaching. He told us later that if lambs were required for David's happiness, they would surely be there.

These brief memories encapsulate three of the many roles fathers are called to fill. They are the essence of what real fathers do: befriend, comfort and teach. And when the end comes for each of us fathers–as it surely will–what better ways to be remembered?

Though 15 Father's Days have come and gone since that cold January day, I still recall two brave young men, 18 and 16, stoically standing by their father's casket. But only upon entering heaven themselves will they fully realize how their father's faithful prayers for them did not die with him, but remained a soothing balm for their lifelong needs.

Then, finally and forever, will be gone the tornadoes–and all other frightful storms of life. And consistent with the scene their father had so often painted, I don't believe they'll be surprised to see the lambs.

Copyright 2002 James McAlister

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