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My life changed forever on August 29, 1979, when my wife Peggy delivered a baby girl and turned me into a father. As I held that helpless babe, with her cute little pudgy nose and wrinkled face, I was overwhelmed by an awesome sense of responsibility.
I knew I was not cut out for this. Patience? Nurturing? Setting an example? This poor kid had no clue what I had gotten her into. But I sure did love that little girl, so I resolved to do my best as a father, however inadequate that might be.
Eighteen months later, Peggy blessed me again, this time with a son. Now there were two young minds full of mush, depending upon us for wisdom, guidance and encouragement! The stakes were getting higher all the time, and I really wasn't feeling any wiser or more patient or confident.
I failed a lot. Too often, I was impatient with my children. There were too many times that I was so wrapped up in something else that I didn't give my kids the attention they deserved. Sometimes I was so tired at the end of a long day that all they got was a quick kiss and a hug before bed, instead of a proper dose of fatherly TLC. I knew I should be doing better, and I prayed frequently that God would help me improve.
Yet in spite of all my failures, we had many great times together. We spent long summer afternoons at the beach, we camped all over the state of Indiana, we had balloon fights and flew kites and shot off fireworks and sometimes we had long, long talks at bedtime. (I knew they were just stalling because they didn't want to go to sleep, but I didn't care.)
We played baseball and Frisbee and made popcorn and chased the dog and sang silly kids' songs and caught lightning bugs and lit sparklers and blew bubbles and jumped in leaf piles and made snow forts. They used to love to dance for me in the living room while listening to old Beatles' albums. Those kids were a lot of fun to play with.
So even though I failed sometimes, there were many times that things went pretty well. And somewhere along the way I realized that my kids didn't care if I was an imperfect and sometimes grumpy dad, because they knew that I loved them and they knew I did the best that I could.
As the years rolled by I started to feel like I was getting the hang of this father biz. And darned if those two little munchkins didn't grow up on me! My daughter is married now, with a child of her own to raise. My son is still in college, and he stops in occasionally to change clothes, eat or sleep.
They've got busy lives of their own now, and it's been quite a while since we've blown bubbles or sang silly songs together at bedtime. But I've got memories enough to last me a lifetime, and I wouldn't trade them for the world.
Watching my kids grow up has been one of the great blessings of my life. They have taught me things I could never have learned from anyone else. They have filled my heart with a love I had never known before. God used (and still uses) them to touch me in a special way.
Now that I've had my shot at child rearing, I realize that none of us is truly up to the task. We each carry our own hang-ups and misconceptions into the job, and we all stumble through parenthood doing the best we can. What else can we do?
Many times while I was growing up, I butted heads with my father. He was often insensitive and overly critical. On countless occasions I was sure that he was wrong and I was right. He once made me so angry that I didn't speak to him for over a year.
But looking back now, who was right or wrong
doesn't seem to matter as much. I don't agree with everything my father did, but I know that he loved me, and I know that he did the best he could.
So, allow me a moment here to give him some overdue posthumous credit: Dad, thanks for raising me and loving me. Thanks for working two jobs and keeping me fed. Thanks for doing the best you could.
Now I understand how tough that can be.
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