Father’s Day swirls with pipe smoke memories, the pungent menagerie of gasoline, and Aramis, and the turnstile of time revolves as I stand on the platform awaiting the unstoppable train. Another child prepares to venture into the world, and I know, at best, they are clothed in hole-covered jeans with a backpack of empty promises the world has offered.
The measure of a man is in the eyes of his children who look through the lens of an hourglass. All that he has to give is wrapped up in small moments and words. These little patchwork pieces of threadbare wisps carry the eternal weight of glory. From soul to soul we pass the blessing of the Father. We are often unaware that the light is often distorted as it passes through us, and we leave a void where we had intended to overflow. These are the hallways of every man, some better, some more aware, but all flawed and groping in the darkness reaching and hoping for more, on that wish for more from generation to generation.
The triumph is in knowing I am but a metaphor for the Father who never forgets, keeps every promise, never misses a game, always smiles with favor, and is never mean in anger or petty in reply. The victory is not in being enough but in simply being constant in pointing to the true and good and right Father. Only the man who has found this Father can with confidence and clarity point his children through his faults and shortcomings to the source of their longing. Only this Father has the words that satiate the desire for praise, acceptance, affirmation, and identity. The wounds we carry that entangle us and lead to our own sin and bondage are inflicted by afflicted. It is our expectation that the infected will not infect that is truly amazing. Pointing to the true Father is the only loving thing a father can do, and yet, it is done in those moments that cannot be recaptured, those fleeting reverberations of our lives. In these moments we are fathers pointing to the Father or trying to be enough and leaving a void. Every child needs a Father and one who will point the way.
Matthew 6:9 :: “This, then, is how you should pray: ‘Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name.’”
Dear Warrior Poet,
Papa, Baba, Dada—different cultures say it differently, but it is the endearing intimate “first syllables” of “Father.” This is the way we are taught to pray in the very intimate, personal, and the foundational name of Daddy. Too often we come to the “Father” as a distant stoic formal aristocrat when really He wants us to come to Him as a loving Daddy. There is no butler or maid as a go between but we run to Him with our snotty, messy lives and jump into His arms and He adores us. When we pray we must pray in this way “Daddy…”