Father's Day

This Sunday is Father's Day. We take a moment to celebrate Dads. If you came here from another planet and you simply read the ads in the paper, you would think dads of this country were great men. Men of honor and valor and humble hearts. You would also think none of them had beer guts or jowls and all stood at least six feet tall. They all had trim waists and a full head of hair of the appropriate color.

According to our public perception, fathers in this country stand straight and firm, they have shiny steel eyes that see truth while having firm, chiseled jaws, that hold back straight white teeth. There's a scar on the face from some prior battle in which Good conquered Evil and the father was at the tip of the spear. In this day dream perception, fathers love their wives, nurture their children, and in times of trouble would hold up the collapsing roof until the last, aged, woman made it safely out. Then, with a smile and a wink, he would let go of the collapsing building and run like a mongoose on crack, clearing the falling rubble by inches and not stopping until he was in his wife's arms, giving her a kiss that curled her toes and then, with soft hands, he would cause his family to kneel right there and give thanks.

Yep, that's what the ads say.

That just is not the reality-or is it?

Also part of that public perception, is that fathers are the crux of the worlds ills. Sorry about that, but take a look at the news accounts. The issues we are having predominantly fall back onto a man who didn't live up to the hype as leader of their family. It only takes one bad apple to taint the whole barrel. Fathers abusing their wives, sons, daughters, kicking the dog, betting the rent on the ponies, and basically breaking the hearts he was sworn to protect, taint all of us. And it spreads to the next generation.

Look, I'm a dad X 3, and I am telling you that dads are asked to walk a real narrow tightrope. They have to be firm but not overbearing. They have to be gentle, but not a sissy-boy. They need to be refined but able to stick their hands into a pile of goo. They need to be a lover, but not 'over-sexed', whatever that is. The foundation of the family, by God's design, centers on the father leading and loving his family. Yep, and some of you reading this are saying that doesn't happen, or does it? We look around and we see these images of men who, based on our experiences, don't exist. Our own fathers have left, fled, beaten, abused, misled, cheated, or just basically defiled the role of 'Father.' I have taken the job of fatherhood seriously and I will be the first to tell you that I too, have violated that trust of the task. So, what do we do with the image of a man on the cover of Target or Macy's, with a tight waist, a full head of hair; or worse-those depicted in 'It's a Wonderful Life' reruns?

We look up.

Look, I have to tell you. I don't have the answer for you. No answer, except one that you might not want to hear. You see, there is this thing rattling around out there. It's called 'God.' Now, for some of you, that's the last thing you want to hear. "Oh, so that's what this is about Mark; you're going to preach to me about something I don't believe in and beat me over the head with. Well, no thanks. I'm dropping the 'follower' label and going home. I don't need to hear any more preaching about God and what 'He will do for me.' I've experienced his 'grace' with my dad and he violated me every which way. I tried god and if' God gave me that father, then he's no God of mine!"

No, I won't preach. I won't beat you with it. I will tell you every feeling you have is justified. I'm just a middle-aged white guy with three kids, a wife, a couple of grand kids and two dogs, both of which are sitting on my feet as we talk here. I can only tell you what I've had to do.

Look at the facts. Dads, like Moms, screw up; probably to a factor of twelve. So, what do we do? We go to counseling; we talk to friends; we withdraw; we have affairs; we go bet on the ponies; we run away; we seek rehab; we divorce one and marry another. How has that worked for us? We do all these things as fathers except the one thing we were made to do; run to our own daddy, the one who designed 'Daddom'. Between the mother and the father, He gave the father the excessant will in their hearts to do one thing really well.

Stand and trust.

Now, I am not getting 'John Wayney' on you. That label has caused more harm than anything since that Garden episode with the apple. No, what I mean by that is life is a struggle. Sometimes, life is only a struggle-from beginning to the end. There is no breather, no break. Sometimes we marry and the world turns to the proverbial shit hole. We want to run. We see our friends do it so why not us? But that wasn't God that caused it-it was us-our own peeps.

The picture at the top is my dad and me. I was about one or so. Dad was born in 1914 and I was born in 1958, putting him at about 44. He married my mom who had twins by her first husband who died in a training flight during World War II. They had my other brother, Gary, shortly after he got married but then was diagnosed with diabetes and didn't want any more children because he didn't want to pass it on. So, I'm thinking, I was a stray round after a night of fun and frolic almost nine years after Gary was born and thirteen after Paul and Susan. I think I would open a vein if I fathered a kid at 44.

But, here's the thing about my dad. First, he stepped into a marriage with a woman with two kids already. That's pretty gutsy, especially in the late forties. They then had their own. Then, almost nine years later, he fathered me. He was raising a child well after most thought it was time to relax a little. I am sure he had some second thoughts when mom told him she was pregnant. After all, she was ten years younger, putting her at 34. She had to be wondering if this was such a good idea as well. The man hung in there. He stayed for the fight. But here's the thing about him. He was flawed; he was sick; he didn't have a full head of hair; he smoked like a chimney; he drank-probably too much; he had a temper; he had small feet; I rarely ever remember him going to church. But he made sure we did.

On Sunday's, he built us a diabetics nightmare breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup and real butter, smoking his cigarette and drinking coffee and then sent us with our mother to church. My brothers don't think he believed in God and all those points that get you 'salvation.' I think the opposite. I think he knew God intimately and talked to him in those quiet times when we were gone. Just a guess. He didn't live long enough for me to ask.

So, who are the fathers of the world? If they're not on the cover of GQ, where are they?

My daughter, Jessica, hates it when I refer to them as the 'Silverbacks' or our society. I used that analogy at her wedding and she didn't get it. But I think her husband, Matthew, did.

They come in many shapes and sizes including overweight, smokers, balding, with a smell that has nothing to do with cute babies. They have scars on their faces from falling flat on them. There is a shyness about them from being humbled many times and then learning to live in a humble state. They bleed openly and often.

There are many fathers who do not deserve the title of 'father.' Ah, but there are many millions, who stand and look at the wave of the world coming towards their family and square their shoulders and set their jaws. The twinkle in their eye says they are ready for a good fight. Their knees only buckling for the God that set them there in the first place and realize it is only the belief in God that gives their legs the strength to hold them up. They listen to their family's heart and gently, with the soft back of their rough hands, stroke each family members face and look into their eyes and say with that look, 'I am your father and in you, I am truly pleased.'

Then they trip and fall on their faces again-another scar.

That can be you, my fellow fathers, starting today. Dads are tired by nature. Nothing wears us out faster than being alone in a bar fight with a bunch of hooligans from someplace like, well, France. But when we look up and down the line and we see each other, like old Silverback gorillas standing, not by our own strength but by some magical power that could only come from one source, we are filled with the will to stay and fight for our families. "Oh, good, I'm not alone." Community of fathers-yep.

So, fathers, when it gets taxing, old, tempting, hard, miserable, fruitless, and there seems to be no hope left and the end of the rope, which fills your hands as you hang on, begins to slip, there was One who set the standard and proved it could be done. He set the standard; the only standard that works.

But you have to look up to see it.

Happy Father's Day.