When I watch him now with his grandchildren, I see him doing the same thing. In a room full of cousins, aunts, and uncles, the noisy chaos of 30 people in one room stands still in the world of which ever child he is with at the time. (photo credit to my mom.)
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| With a grandchild |
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| My dad and mom |
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| On a pogo stick... I think you seriously have to be an "in the moment" kind of person to do this at age 67. |
Then I grew up (not really...still working on that one, but it just sounds like the right thing to say), and even though it took me a long to to outgrow my knowing everything stage, I somehow, in all my "knowingness," married a guy who has the same kind of love in his heart that my dad showed to me as a child. I remember the love I felt for Tim when I would watch him interacting with other people. People craved his presence, because when he was with them, they were the most important thing in the world in that moment...and that was after only knowing him for a few days. Isn't it funny how you just know those things about people? It's reassuring to me now as an adult that I was drawn to kindness, love and sincerity.
The Not-So-Perfect: I've been thinking a lot lately about weakness, mistakes, and imperfections in the light of our own individual human worth and dignity. A few weeks ago, in a moment of introspection about this concept, I made some notes:
What human value means to me:
* Regarded as important
* Regarded as vital/critical
* Irreplaceable, like a valued original object
* Immeasurable in quality, quantity and form (unlike object value)
* Cannot be purchased
* Universal--all the above apply to all human beings
And as I think about human value, I also think of our own views of our value, and the value of others based on (often) mistakenly critical focus on errors and weaknesses. There is nothing more heartbreaking than criticism (guilty...me), and nothing as empowering as seeing past faults to the whole person (striving...me).
But on to how that applies to these two awesome dads...
A few months ago I was attending a women's meeting at church where the speaker said the following: Nothing does not mean worthless; nothing means powerless (in reference to Moses's statement that he was "nothing." See Moses 1: 3-10)
That lead me further into my thinking, and I wrote:
Our nothingness keeps us going back to God. For that reason, it is our imperfection, not our perfection, which makes us perfect. Struggle doesn't mean we are imperfect. It means we are bringing ourselves to God.
My dad was great at being imperfect, which in my eyes always made him perfect. His ability to be comfortable in his own skin, complete with his own weaknesses and shortcomings made it safe for me to be my whole self in his presence. My own struggles didn't matter, because he saw past them to the person who was struggling, and saw my strengths in whatever condition I was in.
And so it is that when I think of how and why I love my own dad, and when I think of the love that knits our children's hearts to Tim, I see this: It is knowing perfectly how to be imperfect, which makes both of them just right.
Let me explain... One thing my children know about grandpa: When you're at his house, he'll gather everyone to read scriptures every day, no matter what. I also knew that growing up. As a child, this represented to me that my churchy dad was following all the rules. What I didn't understand back then was my dad knew he didn't know everything, but was showing me and 11 other children every day how to find our way through anything by turning himself to God.
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| Grandpa reading scriptures with grandkids |
But back to the how... As a teenager, when I was, in fact, all-knowing, my own father was coming to me in his "nothingness" and powerlessness to connect me to his infinite source of strength. It was in his acknowledgement of his nothingness, and in just being present for a few minutes with me before I started my own day, that he became everything to me. He wasn't feeding me rules and how-to's and lectures about how and how not to live, or telling me I needed to eat breakfast instead of putting on make-up, or throwing on a guilt trip about missing scriptures with the family, or telling me how busy he was, or being upset over having to come find me instead of telling me I needed to have enough respect to be there for breakfast like he'd asked (all of which could have sounded a lot like criticism to an autonomy seeking teen, and would have done very little to acknowledge his or my human value and dignity). He was just taking a minute to notice that in a pack of siblings one of his daughters wasn't there, and setting aside his own important task of getting on with his day, and taking the time to seek me out so he could share ideas about life with me from his own book of answers. What a gift.
My realization about all of this: In his selflessness and nothingness, he became everything to me.
Tim does the same thing. I, on the other hand, am usually the one spouting off rules and expectations then apologizing later... Tim knows how to give the gift of self, and I know he thinks his best self often isn't enough, but it is in the how that he affects our children. During this crazy teen family phase, giving his whole imperfect self to be offered up on the sacrificial alter of teen "knowingness" communicates human worth and dignity in a way that speaking about worth and dignity cannot. (And throwing in a spontaneous trip through the drive through doesn't hurt either.)
The message: You matter. In this sea of humanity, you mean the whole world to someone. You are important. You are loved.
The other message: As a dad, I'm imperfect, and I know it, but I also know how to show you that you're everything to me, and at the end of the day, those hearts that are knit to the best dad hearts learn more about human worth and dignity and how to love by watching their own dads than they could ever learn in a sermon.
So on father's day, I'm sending a shout-out to my awesome dad, as well as the awesome dad of my own children. Thank you both for being not-so-perfect (which makes you a just right kind of dad).
