Father’s Day
I didn’t have a dad growing up. It’s common, really; single mother, minority, living in the hood in the capital city. We managed. Mama is a damn strong woman.
When I came of age—and by that, I mean started spending “alone time” with young ladies my age—I was very careful. I didn’t want to get anyone pregnant, and I was intentional. I was a big proponent of the two-forms-of-protection method when engaging. I always said I’d wait until I was married. That was the plan.
I dated some. I had relationships that lasted a couple weeks, a couple months, even a few years; I was even engaged once, but none came to matrimony. Then I met Wife.
We got married on a sunny Saturday in May. Mama performed the ceremony. We promised each other ourselves, celebrated, ate, drank. It was great! Then we started to live our lives, and removed the protections. But, for one reason or another, the baby never came.
I’m not mad about it. Sometimes the universe/God/life (whatever you call it) decides something for you and there’s not much that can be done. It’s complicated though. Part of me is relieved. It’s nice not worrying about babysitters or diapers or sleepless nights. I don’t have to worry about accidents or education costs; a sixteen-year-old driver behind the wheel of my car. I can have drinks with friends and come home or stay up or whatever.
Part of me also mourns. I won’t get a baby. No one will call me “daddy” or ask to play tea-party or learn my favorite songs or how to cook my best meal. I don’t get to tell them that you open the door when on a date or that cologne is to be discovered, not announced. I don’t get to watch them start a life without me. The beautiful, brilliant, painful vision of a life well-dedicated to someone else, rewarded by watching them walk away without you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get to help.
My nephew, Wife’s sister’s eleven-year-old boy, lives with us. His own dad hasn’t been part of his life in years, and his mom has had a rough go of it. We can argue about choices and personality traits all day long, but addiction is an ugly thing that whispers beautiful, lovely, terrible lies in your own voice. Ultimately, the cause doesn’t matter; he’s here now. He doesn’t call me “daddy” and that’s okay. Honestly, I prefer it. I feel like taking that place removes an important part of his history.
It’s been an interesting journey. I’ve had to help him learn how to tie shoes, when it is and is not okay to walk around barefoot. He’s learned how to cut the grass and shovel the sidewalk, and how it’s okay to die in a video game. You’ll never get any good if you don’t take chances. I’ll teach him how to tie a tie soon and, hopefully, that cologne is to be discovered, not announced.
In a roundabout way, I get to be a dad but it’s more than that. I get to fill a space abandoned by someone who couldn’t or wouldn’t fill it. And it’s an important role. I’m lucky. I did well without a father figure. Maybe he would do well too, but with me around maybe there’s less left to chance.
Normally my posts here are founded in scripture, but all the ones I remembered or found seemed too cliché. Then, one Thursday after our weekly lunch date, mom told me about Joseph.
“Jesus was a carpenter,” she announced from behind her melting iced tea. Her misty eyes smiled at the kids chasing each other outside the restaurant, the way they do when school is out they think no one is watching. “At the time,” she continued, “carpentry was a trade passed from master to apprentice, usually father to son. Now, the Bible tells us Joseph was not happy with the situation when he found out Mary was pregnant, but after hearing from an angel, he changed his mind. The Word doesn’t go into much more depth but it doesn’t need to. You can tell. Even though Joseph wasn’t Jesus’s procreator, he still raised Jesus as though he was his biological son. You know what that means, right?” She turned and locked eyes with me. “Joseph, a regular old man, fretted about the Son of God. He raised Him, taught Him, helped Him.”
Mom went on to remark that the true calling of a father figure isn’t fulfilled in the expression of biological matter or even from being called “dad.” It is fulfilled when a person intentionally chooses to set themselves aside for the betterment of the future of another. It’s a sacrifice in its highest view, taking what you have or could have right now, and foregoing yourself for the chance at something better later, even if that something isn’t you.
I’m a grown-ass man now. At this point in my life I’ve accepted that my bloodline will end with me but that doesn’t mean my work was for naught. My sacrifice to someone else is bigger than biology or blood. Sometime in the future, my life (lived to the best of my ability) will carry on in someone else and that’s a beautiful thing. I just hope he remembers what I said about the cologne.
In the process of taking on the responsibility of a child, Wife and I were tossed headlong into the whirlwind that is the state-run foster care system. It’s rife with problems from the generalization of individuals to the terrible stories of the monsters who abuse privileges at the cost of a child’s life. But, for every loud, abhorrent issue, we found ten people—individuals—who dedicated themselves to the betterment of those kids. Teachers, counselors, judges, lawyers, case workers, doctors; all of them have intentionally chosen (usually at the cost of a more prestigious position or increase in pay) to place themselves between the innocent and that terrible unknown that would destroy them.
The world can be an awfully mean place. It doesn’t care about your age or past. It doesn’t care about potential or plight. But these people wake up every day, put on their best smile, and nobly shield the helpless with grace, quietly and thanklessly. They muster a level of fortitude I simply could not. Without them Wife and I would have failed our nephew and I’m certain countless others would have too. So, to the heroes, the ones in child care, foster care, CPS work, guardians ad litem, and family members who help: thank you. You’ll never get enough praise but know your sacrifice is felt. It’s worth it.
