On Fathers

James D Bear lives on Washington Street in the nursery. He is growing longer every day, and his parents have just arranged to have him baptized in March. It wasn't a decision made lightly, and J and I had to find each other from opposing camps. I think it will merit its own entry when the time comes.

Tonight, Monday night, is my time alone with James Bear. J has orchestra rehearsal from 7-9:30, so I give him a bottle and put him to bed. I worry sometimes that James doesn't see enough of me. Several days a week I'm out the door before he's up and I don't return until he's been put to bed for the night. It isn't unusual for Monday night to be the last time he sees me until Thursday afternoon. It would be even worse if J had to work as well, but she can stay home with him, and he loves his Mom beautifully. I'm sure he knows who I am, but I worry when I go several days without seeing him. (Sometimes I'll try to get up in the night if I know I'll be gone all day to see him at his feeding)

I have a marvelous father. He's kept five sons from killing each other for over twenty years, and he's a devoted husband, a small business owner, and a pillar of his church. He is, moreso than any other man I've known, a bringer of peace. He is patient and humble enough to swallow whatever pride he has of his own, and to do what's best for everyone. This is how he's been the worship coordinator for years at our church, and how a household of five boys survived itself. I can't remember the last time he raised his voice or even showed a flicker of a temper. He indulges the foolish strong opinions of others when that's what is best for them, and if that isn't the right thing to do he has a way of correcting you gently. He's so wise he hardly knows it, and he loves his grandchildren now in the same abundance of affection I remember poured out on his own sons and daughter.

My father-in-law is also a maker of peace. Despite his profound theological learning and gift for eloquence, his primary role in his church is as a reconciler and voice of calm. Were I able to speak so easily and hold so much sway, I'd hardly be able to resist throwing my voice against any opposition as I pushed my own theological and organizational agenda. My father-in-law counsels the hotheaded, is patient with error, and always defers to what's best for those around him.

My fathers don't just get along with those around them. Wherever they go they create comfort, calm, and trust. Their trustworthiness is a fragrance, and neither asks for anything in return. Being their son is easy.

Tonight I sat the James Bear on my lap as I put some soup in the microwave. It was a delicious Italian soup J adopted from an Olive Garden date, and I put it in for four minutes so it might be piping hot. James is always happiest with his mother, but he was playing well with me tonight. It's a remarkable thing, how powerfully motherhood sets in. If I ever slipped on the ice and fell while holding James, I would hope that in the split second I had to react, I would overcome my instinctive reaction to brace myself, and would fall in a way that would protect James instead. If J slipped on the ice with James, there wouldn't even be a question of "reacting" to protect him. Her instincts have changed. She loves him and nurtures him as naturally as she breathes, and he knows it. It's why her arms are the safest place in the world for him.

I took the soup out of the microwave and leaned over the table, so I wouldn't drip anything on the little bear bouncing on my knee. I leaned near the bowl and had a few sips. It was piping hot, and delicious. Then I dropped my spoon into the bowl, and the scalding broth splattered directly into my open eye. It felt like I'd been stung by a bee. The soup (which really was delicious) was loaded with hot peppers and salt, and I could hardly see as I staggered up and towards the bathroom. I set James down on his blanket with one eye pinched painfully closed, and then raced upstairs as he began to cry in shock and surprise.

I took my contacts lenses out, and tried to squeeze saline solution into my eye. Eventually I gave up on that and just started splashing cold water onto my face, trying to hold my eye open with one hand and cupping water with the other, James howling downstairs all the while. I started to be able to open my right eye again after a few minutes, and, red and swollen though it was, I was able to think about my son again. He was more frightened than anything else, and it took him a good several minutes of snuggling and whispering to calm him down again.

We had a good half-hour playing with toys. (Even though his rattle gives him a start, I think he likes it.) We were having a grand time on the floor before his bath. We try to bathe him every other night, and I'd made up my mind to give him a big boy bath tonight, which we'd never tried on our own before. I read him a story (The Cat in the Hat) on his changing table, and then stripped him down and took him, the bare little bear, into the bathroom. Sometimes when we change settings all of a sudden he gets upset, and this was one of those times.

I had laid him out on his towel as I checked the temperature of his water, and all of a sudden I heard him truly, truly crying. It isn't hard to tell whether he's mad, frustrated, or scared. As he cried now, shivering and naked on his towel, he was clearly frightened. I wondered whether he was just cold, but I'd wrapped him up tight. I picked him up to snuggle him for a moment, but he was flailing in an unusual way. Then I looked into his eyes and saw nothing but sheer terror. He wasn't cold or upset; he'd suddenly realized he was in a room with someone that wasn't Mom, and he was sobbing because was terrified of me. He never looked so small. I tried to whisper to him some more and comfort him, but he kept pushing away from me and twisting back. I put him in the bath, and he kicked like he's never done before, doing anything to get away, to run away, to look for Mom.

His bath tonight was more of a rinse. He was shrieking so hard that I couldn't stand to keep him in there for more than a splash off, and I couldn't get him calmed down afterwards except for finally offering him his bottle. He had tears streaming down his face and he was still shivering with sobs as he took it, twisting away from me and breathing hard. About halfway through he calmed down, and though he was still tear-stained, I felt his little body relax. He had fallen sound asleep when I wrapped him up and laid him in his crib.

Father-love is a strange and frightening thing. I think it's entirely natural, but somehow it requires effort in a way quite unlike Mother-love. Tonight when my little son saw me in the fluorescent lights of the bathroom I frightened him in a way that I've never heard him frightened before. My fathers, by a lifetime of decisions to look to the interest and well-being of others before themselves, bring comfort and peace wherever they go. I, who am clever and vain, haven't been so helplessly inexperienced at something in quite some time, especially something so important as loving and comforting my son. Pray that I might show my Father's love to him.