[Received this blog post =
written by my daughter as Father’s Day thoughts about me. =
Wow. I love you too, baby girl]
“The Perfect =
Circle”
He’s not =
perfect.
I didn’t know that then, =
when my head finally reached the height where I could butt my chin on =
his belt buckle at long last. It never crossed my mind as I stood on the =
tops of my father’s polished wingtips and demanded he walk with me =
attached to his legs like an octopus, both deadweight and =
delighted.
He wasn’t perfect, when =
we went out to grab $1 hamburgers for the family and also a secret bag =
of French fries that we gobbled up before we pulled into the driveway, =
licking our fingers to remove the delicious salty evidence, folding the =
greasy bag into a tiny square to be tucked discreetly in the kitchen =
trash can on our way into the house. But I didn’t know that =
then.
Neither was he perfect when he =
taught me chess and cribbage, patiently watching me make my choices, =
then revealing the more logical strategies that must have been so =
evident to him all along. When his little navigator looked in vain for =
the answer on the map as we drove right past the exit I’d been =
tasked with finding, or when my answers on the literature quiz showed =
laziness and lack of interest and insight, his imperfections were not =
apparent.
He wasn’t =
perfect.
But I thought he was. I thought =
he walked on water. I was SO proud of my Dad.
Now, as an adult with children =
of my own, I realize how he must have struggled with the near-constant =
barrage of parental fears and failures. He must have felt he let us down =
many times. I didn’t know then I was an instrument in his own =
forgiving. Part of his process. A lesson not found in any textbook, but =
learned on the quiet battlefield of the upstairs hallway. The school =
office. The passenger seat of the car.
I don’t remember the =
first time it crossed my mind that my dad could be wrong about =
something. That he was not, indeed, the perfect father or husband or =
even son. Somewhere along the way, like accepting your parents are =
mortal, I accepted that my father was human, as =
well.
And if I thought back really =
hard, examined memories, I could see it, here and there. A moment of =
lost temper at a teenager, raised voices and pulsing temples… and =
an apology later in the living room. An angry arrow of a comment that =
found its mark in my mother… and the wordless make-up I stumbled =
across in the kitchen that afternoon.
Oh, yes, they were there, those =
moments of imperfection, of not-even-close.
I can see them now, but with =
the gift of age and experience of my own, they are like waves washing =
over words written in the sand.
So clear; then with a wave, =
blurred.
Another wave, completely =
obscured.
Another wave, and they never =
existed.
The imperfections are a gift, I =
see now. The gift is in the grace of the perfect =
circle.
The symmetry of the mercy as =
each imperfect generation learns the power of a simple living-out of =
life before the Lord. An ongoing perfection of forgiveness as each of us =
comes up short against the reality of our failures, and finds nothing =
but faithfulness, new every morning.
I know now that he does not =
walk on water.
But I am still SO proud of my =
Dad.
~~
Dr Bob Griffin =
[email protected] www.grif.net =
"Jesus Knows Me, This I =
Love!"