Posted on Prodigy 3/4/1992
A few weeks ago, my son started calling me “father”. When we adopted him (and his sister) 5 years ago, he was 7 and I was “daddy”. That seemed to suit us both for a few months, but then, 2nd grade peer pressure being what it is, I was booted up to “dad”. And there it’s stood. Until now.
When I first heard “father”, I was speechless. It had to sink in for a while. I know he thought I was deaf or senile when I didn’t answer him, looking him in the eye, like I was. But it was a pretty sudden change. You could almost hear the capital “F” is his voice. My first thought, of course, was “This kid wants something.” Something BIG. But he didn’t. He just wanted to talk. Father and son.
Before I was married, I dreamt a lot about being a dad. I always knew I’d be good at it. I like to relax. And
play games. And eat pizza. Such dads are always popular with kids. And after I was married, I KNEW I’d be good at it because I started growing in places that remind folks of Pooh Bears. And then the kids came. And after 10 years of marriage, I was a real dad. Not a “natural” dad or a “biological” dad or an “A Parent” dad. A REAL dad.
I’ve worn the “Dad” button proudly for 5 years now. I’ve been there when he needed me and when he didn’t want me. I’ve stayed up all night watching “Terminator” movies and I’ve stayed up all night watching his hospital bed. I’ve been a “dad”. But now I was a “father” and it puzzled me.
When parenting becomes puzzling, I generally look for spiritual parallels. I don’t know if that’s deep theology or just elementary living, but it works for me. And so I began to think of by own relationship with God. When the kids came, I was scared. I doubted myself, my abilities, and my kids. It was only my clinging to my heavenly Father that got me through it. Not just one day at a time. It was one hour at a time. Until it began to sink in that He had equipped me to handle what He had given me to do, and that where my abilities left off, His grace would always be sufficient. Always. After 5 years, it’s sunk in. I don’t have to be afraid. I don’t have to worry. I can count on my Father. I am His, and He is mine.
And then it hit me right between the eyes. After 5 years my son was no longer afraid. He didn’t worry any more if I would be there the next day. I was his. And he was mine.
And I was “father”.
