Pitter Pater

Back in my religious days, I recall sitting in church one Mother’s Day, holding my dad’s hand and listening to the speakers—all male—wax rhapsodic about the gloried sanctity of the women who had raised them to be the supernal specimens of righteous nobility they had become. The most memorable facet of the entire service was my anticipation of what the female speakers would have to say on Father’s Day the following month. Naturally, it made sense to me that, since the boys had been asked to talk of motherhood, the girls would be asked talk of fatherhood. I even dared to hope that I might be invited to speak about my father, and promptly began to construct my dream speech.

Well, I wasn’t asked. No daughters were. Imagine my disappointment when, on Father’s Day, the service began, we sang our hymns and said our prayers, and the first speaker stepped up to the podium. A man. Excuse me, a priesthood holder, who promptly launched into waxing rhapsodic about the gloried sanctity of the man who had raised him to be blah blah blah.

I was so mad that I’ve remembered the slight to this day.

This day being Father’s Day, I’d like to present the speech that I was not invited to give all those years ago, which I would do if I could remember any of it. A lot of time has passed since then, and my relationship with my father has adapted accordingly. A few things between us have remained unchanged, which means they must be true.

My dad is a good guy. He struggles, and has struggled, more than he’s let on over the course of my life, but I have never doubted that he loves me, wants the best for me, wants the best from me, and has been no less demanding on himself. He tells me that I once told him as a father he was great, but as a husband, not so much. Naturally, I don’t remember that conversation and it’s hardly my call anyway, but when I got in where I shouldn’t have gone, I managed to get out with a deeper understanding of life, love, and the complexities of adulthood. That’s the cool thing about my dad. I can talk to him about adulthood. I try not to, being compelled to prove myself a competent player in the game of life, but when he catches me unaware, we have the best discussions.

I learned from him to answer honestly when he asked me what I was thinking. Those drives home from work were invaluable moments to expand on our thoughts, hopes, dreams, fears, you name it, we probably talked about it. True, I did most of the talking. He listened and asked questions that encouraged me think more. He dispensed advice, some good, and some that I later regretted ignoring. And some that just plain didn’t work for me—and that turned out to be okay, because as cool as my dad is, he’s not perfect. He’ll be the first to tell you so.

He’ll also be wrong. My father is as perfect as he can be, and that’s how this daughter likes it.

Happy Father’s Day.

With love,