This is the third Father's Day I've gotten to celebrate. Since 2012, when The Wifey was first pregnant with The Boy, I've been able to seriously think about the transition from being a son of a father I never knew to being a father of children who I hope will know me through their adult lives.
As I prayed for The Boy tonight before putting him down, I was reminded of one of my favorite passages in one of my favorite books. I shared it in a post a while back, before I had any children and was wrestling with fatherlessness; now it has a new meaning now as I get talk to, play with, and hold my son.
It represents how I hope to love not only him, but all the children God made bless The Wifey and me with:
I'd never believed I'd see a wife of mine doting on a child of mine. It still amazes me every time I think of it. I'm writing this in part to tell you that if you ever wonder what you've done in your life, and everyone does sooner or later, you have been God's grace to me, a miracle, something more than a miracle. You may not remember me very well at all, and it may seem to you to be no great thing to have been the good child of an old man in a shabby little town you will no doubt leave behind. If only I had the words to tell you.
There's a shimmer of a child's hair, in the sunlight. There are rainbow colors in it, tiny, soft beams of just the same colors you can see in the dew sometimes. They're in the petals of flowers and they're on a child's skin. Your hair is straight and dark, and your skin is very fair. I supposed you're not prettier than most children. You're just a nice-looking boy, a bit slight, well scrubbed and well mannered. All that is fine, but it's your existence I love you for, mainly. Existence seems to me now the most remarkable thing that could ever be imagined. I'm about to put on imperishability. In an instant, in the twinkling of an eye.Just the fact that he exists, that he is in this world and is my son. That's how I hope I will always love him and I pray he knows it to be true.
Happy Father's Day.