The room waited anxiously, with great expectation.
“So what happened next? How did you ask it?” The cohort of college students clung to the edge of their seats, engrossed in the story.
John paused for effect; then continued. “So finally I took her” – motioning to his wife – “to the top of the tower, because I wanted to show her the world. And, well, that’s where I asked her.” A split second of silence, then the room erupted, its approval voiced by abundant whoops, giggles, and applause.
And as if on cue, the students turned to the other set of adults in the room, an older couple quietly sitting near the back. “Dale and Sharon!” they pleaded. “You HAVE to tell us your story too! Yea! Come on Dale, how did you ask her?” The room grew quiet, expectations high.
Ugh. I was afraid of this. I slouched lower and lower as my dad started – and finished – his story, a short tale which always seemed to end before it even began.
“Well, we were washing dishes at my mom’s house one day,” he said matter-of-factly, “and you know, it just seemed like a good time to ask. So that’s how I did it.”
Crickets.
A few more moments of silence passed before John stood up again. “You know,” he stated with slow, firm conviction. “When I see him” – motioning to my dad – “and his consistent faithfulness to Sharon, I can only hope to model my marriage the same over the next 20 years.”
He paused.
“Because at the end of the day, marriage is not based on how you start it, but how you live it.”
—
I easily remember those biggest, brightest moments. A son never forgets the feeling of turning a double play with his dad in a pickup softball game, or hearing on his 23rd birthday his dad express how fatherhood has been the greatest joy of his life, or seeing his dad break into the biggest smile upon him getting into pharmacy school, the chip finally starting to look more and more like the old block. All the affirmation wrapped up in such memories makes them impossible for a son to forget.
But that’s it; I can’t really think of any more! It’s so interesting, that a thorough combing of my memory would only produce three of what I would term “big, bright,” singular moments in time. Yet, in another sense, it only seems fitting: that the tapestry of his fatherhood would consist not of ten brushstrokes, but rather of ten thousand dots.
I zoom in for a closer look at these clustered dots. I see him smiling at Little League games, recitals, and presentations. I see days playing catch in green fields, and nights rallying under the lights of tennis courts. I see a spring trip here to Arizona to watch baseball training, and a summer tag-along there for a conference, not to bring me along for the meetings but rather to spend evenings together exploring cities: New Orleans, Orlando, Atlanta; which summer was which again? The memories overlap too much for me to tell. I see him teaching me to drive in empty lots before getting my permit. I see him separating his work from his home life, stress checked at the door. I see him sitting at the dinner table, folding back my sheets, separating the whites from the colors, balancing my checkbook, and taking out the trash.
And all across the canvas, ubiquitously placed high to low and side to side, I see the same two dots over and over, the inescapable motif pervading hundreds of conversations, moments, and memories; his words, spoken in a thousand ways and a thousand times over:
I’m proud of you. I love you.
I pause.
Truly, fatherhood is not based on how you start it, but how you live it.
—
If a boy desires manhood, he must first come to grips with the realization that his life will be tough. If he wants to care for a wife and put food on the table, he’s going to have to work hard. He’ll spend the rest of his days fulfilling the handful of roles entrusted to him: husband, father, employee, and if a man of faith, Christian. There won’t be much time left for himself. He’ll most likely have to put down his Xbox, golf clubs, and remote; the hobbies of his youth will, in fact must, learn to play second fiddle, if he is to succeed in these roles.
I want so badly to be a man, but it seems so far away. It’s quite frustrating sometimes, all the talk I produce without the action to back it. Yet if I’ve one thing going for me, it’s this: years spent reaping the fruit from the life of a father, who, long ago, decided to paint the story of his life upon the canvasses of others at the expense of working on his own. It stands for me as a tangible example, and shows me the truth that manhood is not based on how you start it, but how you live it. Thank you dad, for your footsteps and shoes; by the sheer grace of God, I will one day follow and fill them.
I want to be like him.
And for that day I wait anxiously, with great expectation.
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I’ve never had a girlfriend, nor sisters, from whom to learn the art of deciphering the female heart, let alone learn how to properly care for one. (My cluelessness in such areas is quite well known by my closest friends). And when I combine this truncated knowledge with excessive experience of my own bent towards irresponsibility and selfishness, it is clear why the thought of one day asking a girl for her heart gives me a heart attack.
But she gave me hers the day I was born, even though I never asked for it. Through the years I’ve battered and abused it, many times even failing to see, denying really, that I possessed it. Yet everyday she places it again in my trust, and now as I finally slow to stop and look, I see in my hands the heart of a woman: resilient, fragile, and overflowing with grace.
I’ve seen my mom’s heart ride out some tough storms. It did not fail through a rough childhood, through racism and ill-fitting clothes and family issues, but instead scrapped up the strength to lead her siblings and pursue higher education. It did not falter – nor has it since – through my younger brother’s autism diagnosis, but instead died to its old perceptions of motherhood and worth and identity, and through years of gut-wrenching pain, now lives to breathe life into younger mothers facing similar situations of uncertainty. And it never flinches with worry when my heart seems to go astray, for she trusts that the same God who holds her heart will continue to mold mine.
I’ve seen my mom’s heart break to pieces. It ripped a couple months ago, when an old high school friend with whom she just recently reconnected developed cancer and suddenly passed away. It tore when my brother failed to receive an invite to a high school graduation party at church, as if the world didn’t forget him enough already. And it has ruptured often by my own hand, cut deep by scalpels of lies, disrespect, and neglect. I’ve made her cry far too many times. Yet she continues to give her heart nevertheless, knowing what it may cost but gladly taking the risk.
I’ve seen my mom’s heart live to beat for others. It spent four hours a day patiently helping my brother understand his homework, enabling him to attend and graduate public high school in the company of multitudes of friends. It speaks into the lives of the four students she takes time to personally mentor, and of countless others who have gleaned her wisdom and love during her near-decade of service to our church college group. And as I hold it in my hands, its arteries wrap around my arms like vines, filling my veins abundantly with her constant supply of grace. She infuses grace into me better than any other person in this world, as if we’re perfectly matched. We are flesh and blood, after all.
They say a guy will end up marrying someone like his mom, whether he realizes it or not. I used to look upon this with disgust as a child and disdain as a teenager, and although my current gut reaction as a twenty-something would be to quickly deny it, I can feel myself slowly awaken to the truth: that I’ve never had a girlfriend because I’m still hoping to meet one with a heart like yours.
So Happy Mother’s Day, mother-whom-I-love-so-much. Thank you for giving me your heart. Here’s mine.
Your son,
Daniel
