Something Better Than President (To my Mom for Father's Day)

I guess in some ways it would've made more sense to write this post on Mother's Day. I could have, but I didn't. Because although you have been a mom to me these past 39 years, you've also stood where a dad should've stood all these years, too. When you're a single parent, you don't think about taking off the "Mom" hat to put on the "Dad" hat, do you? You just see what needs done and said and paid and corrected and kissed and tackled and you do it. All. Alone. Every. Day.

Last week, I glanced at our faces in the mirrored dining room when we laughed, not sure which was yours and which was mine. Our eyes, our hair color, our size, our smile. Have two mothers and daughters ever looked more alike?

It's no wonder I have a hard time telling us apart. A baby doesn't make itself and neither does a toddler, a preschooler, a student, a teenager, or a woman. So much of who I am, you have made me, and what I have, you have given me. I can't always sort out what's mine and what's yours on the inside either.

When my newborn hand first wrapped around your barely 19-year-old finger, you wrapped your love in determination and sealed it with a kiss on my tiny black-haired head. That kiss was full of expectations for how we would get through. Starting with the first time the babysitter would pry my little arms and legs from around you so you could go to work. You'd be brave, telling me and all my tears I could too and then run to your car crying on your way because you hated leaving me scared and sad. What hat were you wearing then? "Mom" or "Dad"? Or were you just knowing you had bills to pay and our mouths to feed and if you didn't work, who would?

You had expectations for me the summer before Kindergarten when we took a walk on Daytona Beach and you told me things would be different. I was becoming a big girl and would have to go to school and pull my chin out of my chest and make friends. And you knew I could do it. I believed I could too because you said so.

You had expectations for me when Amy, who had every toy she wanted, made fun of me because I didn't even have a dad. You didn't say all I'm sure you wanted to say about her, nor did you justify our situation. You helped me take pity on her because she had toys, all right, but she didn't have a relationship like ours.

You had expectations for me in 3rd grade when Carla said I looked like a chipmunk with my buck teeth hanging over my lip. You didn't rush to the orthodontist and throw some braces on me to boost my self-esteem or tell me buck was the new beautiful. You expected me not to take myself too seriously and suggested that I go with the theme and dress up as one of the chipmunks for Halloween. So out came the over-sized sweatshirt and paint for Alvin's signature "A". Trick or treat!

You had expectations for me in 5th grade (Stella's age) when I had to start setting my own alarm clock for school and getting myself out of bed, ready, and out the door on time. I couldn't miss the bus because you were already at work and couldn't leave to come get me if I did. I think I ran to the bus stop many mornings that year, climbing those bus steps panting and wind blown. I may have even chased it down a few times, running across Forest View Drive to the last stop in our neighborhood. (Punctuality was never my strength. Wonder where I got that from?!)

You had expectations for me in 7th grade when I didn't make the cheerleading squad in spite of being favored for a spot going into tryouts. The teachers picked the girls from "good families" and who knew what mayhem I might introduce considering the kind of family I came from. You gave me strict instructions that I was to be as glad for the girls who won as I would've been for myself. That I shouldn't dare talk badly about the judging or any of the other girls who beat me, regardless of what I thought of their "barely off the ground toe touches" and "horribly uncoordinated dancing."

You had expectations for me in the summers from 5th grade on. I was to be out of bed by 9 AM, check my to do list for the day, and get busy completing it before you got home that afternoon. I was also to read Five Little Peppers and How They Grew and list every word I didn't know the meaning of. Then I was to look up those words in the dictionary and write out their definitions. (Thankfully, you let this one expectation go after awhile!)

You had expectations for me in high school when one of my teachers, who by all other accounts was a nice person, had the audacity to say a woman could never be President of the United States because she would constantly be changing her mind about what color the drapes should be in the White House. (Even typing those words now still makes my blood boil a little too much.) I don't think I'd ever heard someone criticize and demean my gender like that because you had taught me, not in a man bashing way, nor in a we-need-men-as-much-as-a-fish-needs-a-bicycle way, women were as competent as men. Didn't everyone think that? I knew you couldn't care less what color the drapes were in the White House, but you were a woman who could capably lead our house and your office, with a multi-membered staff and several departments, because you were smart and decisive and strong. And you expected the same from me.

For 26 years under your roof, you told me what I should be and you lived it for me like a mom should and like a dad should've. My old high school teacher might be surprised that you raised me to be something better than President. God used all you invested in me and expected of me to help make me a Christian woman.

Happy Father's Day, Mom. For all the days you did what needed to be done, said what I needed to hear, worked your fingers to the bone, studied into the wee hours of the morning to earn your degrees, stayed up late to wash clothes and floors and dishes, and lived the expectations you held me to. You became part of who I am. And I couldn't be prouder to be so much you that I can't tell us apart.

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*Some names have been changed in this post to protect the guilty:)

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This Man

We're still celebrating the gift of this man today.

And I've gotten to love this man for 11 years now.

On Saturday, we got to hear this man speak at the Memorial Service for the thousands of babies who lost their lives at 4132 Schaefer in Dearborn during the 20 years the facility was in business until it closed in April of this year.

"No one ever spoke the way this man does," the guards replied [about Jesus]. (John 7:46)

And this man knows he is merely that Man's mouthpiece.

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A Father's Heart

I held it like it was you, that red crochet heart. It hung on my bed post reminding me you were out there, just not here. And how can a 7-year-old reconcile that?

Mom said you loved me and I wanted to believe her. But tears soaked my pillow many nights that second grade year, because if you loved me, where were you?

Sometimes a mom can love enough for a mom and a dad. She did. And she'd sit with me and tell me about you. Good things, actually. It made me smile to hear you were voted "Most Popular" by your eighth grade class. I thought it was cool that you sang in a high school rock band. And my friends now would laugh to know that you worked in your family owned bakery since there's little I hate more than baking. I'd replay those few facts I knew about you over and over in my mind acting like you were familiar and hoping that would change reality.

When I was brave, I'd look at the picture taken on one of the last visits I had with you when I was three. It's of us sitting in a bean bag, reading a book. I'd imagine what it would be like to feel your reassuring arm around me again. I couldn't remember and I knew a little girl needed a strong arm to steady her in this scary world. But all I really had was that red crochet heart you sent me one Valentine's Day.

And it's not just that we didn't have you, but it's who we got in your place. We got more heartache and pain. But when he was gone, Mom got Jesus, and we said you can have all this world - with families good and bad - as long as we could keep Him.

He never left us. Never hurt us. Never went back on His word. He was perfect. I know. I read it and couldn't pull my eyes off the page. I underlined over and over all of those promises He made to the fatherless. And I started to believe them. I started to believe I could trust Him. That I had found the perfect Dad. Or rather that He had heard and found me! "If [the fatherless] cry out to me, I will certainly hear their cry." (Exodus 22:23) He rescued me and quieted me with His love just like I knew a Father's heart should.

And He keeps hearing. When I enrolled in a Christian college that was clearly unprepared to deal with me and my Gen-X baggage, and was harassed by my admissions counselor because I couldn't provide your address or any information about you, I cried out and He heard. Then in Freshman Orientation when the Vice President piled up statistics about being doomed to repeat the cycle of dysfunction if you were from a broken home like I could be scared out of sinning but would always be a second class Christian, I cried out and He heard. And when a girl in my dorm approached me like I was wearing a scarlet letter and said, "Do [the young man's] parents know he's dating you? I mean, my dad would never let me date someone from your kind of background," I cried out and He heard. And when I pulled out my birth certificate a couple months ago and saw the line under "Father's Name" staring back at me blank and bare like I didn't even have one, I cried out wondering how my heart could buckle so quickly under the weight of something that's empty, and He heard.

The thing about the past is that it doesn't stay put. It comes with you and you have to keep dealing with it. That's something we have in common, right? But because Jesus has dealt with it, we can too.

A few years ago when we talked for the first time in over thirty years, I told you like I've indicated here, that our life was hard without you, but that I didn't have grievances to air, only a message of hope and forgiveness to share. And that's the case today.

And even though you still say you want to talk soon but have fallen short again, I understand and so does Adam. He fell first and dads and moms have been doing the same thing ever since.

Even though at one time I wanted more than anything to be known as your daughter, to have my last name be yours, I've found security in a Heavenly Father who has demonstrated His heart of love for me in this, while I was still a sinner, Christ died for me. And my acceptance into His family doesn't require a certain pedigree or family heritage. He doesn't require a specific bloodline because His love for me and you is based on the precious blood of His Son, who by the way knows a little about being born into the shame of scandal. I guess I'm in good company, after all.

Stella's question caught me off guard earlier this week as we were picking out a Father's Day card for Matt. She asked if I was getting a card for you. I never have, but maybe this can be it. And maybe you and others like us will read it. So, from a daughter's heart that has been radically changed by the overwhelming love of her Father, let me show you His heart. He loves reckless sinners with a reckless, profuse love. Our wild living is no match for His forgiveness. In fact, He meets our sin with extravagant grace. I know because I've experienced it!

“[W]hile [I] was still a long way off, [my] father saw [me] and was filled with compassion for [me]; he ran to [me], [and] threw his arms around [me] and kissed [me].
“[He] said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on h[er]. Put a ring on h[er] finger and sandals on h[er] feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this [daughter] of mine was dead and is alive again; [s]he was lost and is found.’ So [we] began to celebrate." (Luke 15:20, 22-24)

The Father's looking for you too, ready to open His heart of compassion and arms of love and meet you where you are. There's nothing more I pray for you this Father's Day than for you to know Him. I can imagine Father's Day is difficult for you. But this one can be different. It can be filled with the joy of new life, a changed heart, repentance, and restoration! And so, tomorrow I wish you, Dad, a Father's Day worth celebrating!

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