Father’s Day (it was a sunny)

It was a sunny day, the sky was a deep blue without a cloud in sight. I sat back in my chair pondering the questions of life. Not sure where my life was headed, I was trying to bring the big picture into focus. Sitting, waiting for some sort of sign.

I looked back at my life, the good and bad, and the thought of my father weighed heavily on my mind. How many times have I blamed Dad for my failures? “If only” was my cry. “If only” he said he loved me. “If only” he said he was proud of me… If only!

I was taken aback by the next thought that crossed my mind. An inner voice spoke to me, saying, “Have you ever told your dad you were proud of him?”

I thought, “Why would I tell my dad I was proud of him? All the putdowns, all the times he made feel like I was not good enough. Why would I ever tell him I was proud of him?”

Then it hit me; a light went off inside my head. The inner voice softly answered, “He did the best he knew how. Sure, he had his faults, but he always loved you in his own way. Maybe, he never said the words, but his actions said it all. He worked very hard to keep your family sheltered, clothed and fed.”

I tried to argue back, “I know he did all those things,
but he never said the words I longed to hear.”

What I heard next melted my heart and brought tears to my eyes. The voice responded, “He was never taught that by his own father. How can he tell you words he doesn’t know how to say?!”

I sat stunned and silent, tears rolling down my face. I
thought long and hard and realized how much my father meant to me. Father’s Day was only a week away, and I wanted to give him something special. I wondered what would be the perfect Father’s Day present. Finally, after much thought, I concluded that I would write my dad a special poem for Father’s Day.

I put the pencil to the paper and started to write. The words flowed through me, all the anger I once had towards my father vanished. As I finished the poem, I looked it over and realized that some force had inspired me to create this work of art.

This is the poem I handed to my dad on Father’s Day:

DAD

I want you to know how much I truly appreciate you. We have come a long way, Dad, and through it all, I have always loved you. I know growing up can be a difficult time for both father and son. I know you didn’t always say the words I longed to hear, but your actions spoke louder than words. You were always there for me, providing me with the needs for my survival. We drifted apart at times, only because I chose to push you away. Blaming you for my shortcomings and setbacks, while I was only hurting myself. It’s not until we grow older and expand individually, that we recognize the true meaning of LOVE. Dad, not only have you given me so many qualities that I admire in you, such as your strength, wisdom, love and courage, but you have given me the greatest gift of all

World, The

Once there was a little boy who wanted his dad to teach him how to play catch. One sunny day the little boy

Adoption: The New Country of Fatherhood

Biskek, Kyrgyzstan. The name of that foreign city went through my mind over
and over as I lay in bed. Biskek, Kyrgyzstan. Panic gripped me as I kept
wondering why I had applied for a job in a country about which I knew nothing.

I had battled a similar kind of panic when my wife and I decided to adopt a
baby. Adopting a child and becoming a father scared me as much as moving to
an unknown country. I knew there would be joy and excitement as we began
the adoption process, but I was caught off guard by the attack of the “what
if’s.”

What if the child isn’t anything like me? It’s natural for parents to look
for their reflection in their children. Fathers often want sons who will
love football, fishing, or other hobbies like they do. I was an English
teacher and feared adopting a child who hated to read. Fathers are easily
tempted
to live their lives vicariously through the achievements of their children.
But the more I thought about not being able to boast in my son’s genes, the
more I believed that having my ego less wrapped up in my son was probably a
good thing. Today, however, I cheer just as loudly as any other dad when my
son scores a goal in soccer. He’s my son even though he doesn’t share my
genes.

Six years of teaching in grade school also taught me that a child with his
parents’ genes could be just as much an unknown bundle as any adopted
child. I had students who were completely different from the brother I had
taught the year before. I saw unathletic children whose fathers were
professional athletes. Recessive genes even eliminated any guarantee that
children would
look like their parents. I realized all children were a wonderful adventure
of discovery.

But what if I don’t love this stranger? I had known my wife for years
before making the decision to marry her and love her forever. How could I
just decide to love a child who (in our case) wasn’t even born yet?
Although we completed our adoption in what we were told was record time,
the forty days
leading up to it was like forty days of emotional labor as we got
physicals, did interviews for the home study, filled out forms, talked to
lawyers, and watched friends and relatives give generously to help us with
the cost. My wife had not carried this baby in her womb, but we had
certainly carried this
baby in our hearts and prayers.

Because of the “intensive labor” of the adoption process, my son didn’t
seem like a stranger when I first held him three days after his birth. With
one arm gently cradling his whole body, I looked into his eyes and knew
that my heart belonged to him. All doubts about my heart being large enough
to love
this child vanished as I gazed down into his blue eyes and said, “Peter
James Wilson.”

But what if he later has all kinds of questions about who he is and why he
is adopted? I had seen some adopted high school kids struggle with a sense
of identity and a lack of connection with their parents. This was not a
“what if” I could completely work through in advance. But since our
adoption was open and we had met the birth parents, I decided to keep a
written record of the whole process.

I recorded how we sat in the hospital cafeteria with the birth mother as
she said, with streaming tears, “I want him to know that I gave him up for
adoption not because I don’t love him, but because of how much I do love
him.” I have also written of how much joy and love he has brought to our
lives. I’ve now been writing in his journal for seven years. If he is full
of questions and confusion when he is sixteen, I hope to hand him this
journal and at least answer any questions about the depth of our love. Of
course other “what if’s” came that threatened to diminish our love and
courage. My wife and I are about three weeks from adopting three more boys
ages five, six, and seven. A whole different army of “what if’s” are
attacking. But all the “what if’s” are in the future and can be answered or
overcome. “If only’s” are the real enemy because they attack from a past
where we cannot do
battle. I would rather face all the “what if’s” in the world than live with
one “if only.”

I never made it to Biskek, Kyrgyzstan, but we did adopt a child whom I
wouldn’t trade for anything the world. And I discovered this new country of
fatherhood that has become my heart’s true home.

Mark Wilson
“Today’s Father 6.1″

(Mark Wilson teaches English at Southwestern Oregon Community College. He
lives in Myrtle Point, Oregon with his wife Teckla and their son Peter.)

Dad, I Miss You

Your arms around me I’ve never felt

At least not that I remember
I was born in late July
You died a year later in September

I wish you could have waited
Until I could remember your voice
But death came to you by surprise
It really wasn’t your choice

I had to grow up without you dad
My children you’d never see
But through my life and through my heart
You’ll always live in me

The others say you’re not my dad

Because I never knew you
But even though you were not there
I still am part of you

I forgive you dad for leaving me
You didn’t ask to go
I really wish I’d known you dad
I just wanted you to know.
P.S. Dad… I love you.

Author Unknown

In the Big Inning

The spiritual lessons of baseball.
Randy Petersen

Father’s Day, 1964. My dad was watching the flickering images on our
black-and-white Zenith television. He called me into the room. I was 7
years old. It seemed that Jim Bunning, the ace pitcher for our hometown
Phillies, was nearing the end of a “perfect game.” I had no idea what
this meant, but I watched as the final outs were recorded for posterity.
And I was hooked. I’ve had a love affair with baseball ever since.

Every April, hope is reborn, and nearly every August it dies.
Especially when you’re a Phillies fan. We shift our attention at this point to
the teams that have a chance to win it all. Will their late-season
trades put them over the top? How will their hotshot rookies handle the
pressure of a pennant race? Will their seasoned veterans grow weary in the
heat of summer? What statistical records will be threatened this year?

But baseball is more than standings or stats. There’s an inner beauty
to this game that parallels the intricacies of human life. In my fourth
decade of watching players round the bases, I’m coming around to some
observations about the spiritual meaning of this game.

Baseball is situational. To the novice, it might seem monotonous:
Pitcher throws to batter 300 times a game. But every pitch has a different
situation, with slightly different strategies and expectations. The game
is a kaleidoscope, with minor pieces turning to create brilliant new
designs. Outs, base runners, balls and strikes, inning, score, and place
in the batting order–these mathematically create a quarter-million
different situations–and that doesn’t even include the strengths and
weaknesses of the individual pitcher and hitter. It’s a new game with every
pitch.

Of course, life is situational, too. Every moment we face decisions
that present us with a range of options. What should I do when the light
turns yellow, when that guy wants to clean my windshield at a city
intersection, when someone calls asking me to change my long-distance
service?

Baseball has a “book” and a “spirit.” The “book” is the collected
wisdom of a dozen decades of baseball experience. That’s how most managers
deal with the myriad situations of the game. Bring in the left-handed
pinch hitter to face the right-handed relief pitcher–because percentages
show that opposite hands favor the batter. If the leadoff batter gets
on in a tie game, have the next batter bunt. Don’t make the first or
third out at third base.

Every so often, a brilliant manager like the Cardinals’ Tony LaRussa
tries to improve on the “book.” A few years ago, he tried batting the
pitcher (usually the weakest hitter) eighth instead of ninth. He was
trying to put more men on base in front of the slugger Mark McGwire.
Computer models show that his experiment should have worked, but it didn’t.
You cross the “book” at your own peril.

You’ve already figured out the spiritual lesson, no doubt. Most of the
world’s great religions have a “book” that offers the wisdom of the
ages. As a Christian, I study the Bible for guidance in life’s varied
situations. LaRussa-like, I occasionally try to tinker with its teachings,
but it usually doesn’t work.

And yet baseball has a spirit, too, which flows through the game beyond
the constraints of the book. Sometimes baseball defies explanation, the
coincidences are so great. Players talk about the whims of “the
baseball gods,” and there’s something to that. Hardcore atheists become
believers as they watch the quirks, streaks, and high drama of this game. The
Phillies were clearly cursed in 1964, my inaugural season, losing 10 in
a row to blow the pennant. Conversely, the “Amazin’ Mets” were charmed
in 1969, as an unlikely lineup forged past supposedly better teams to
win the Series. Talk about curses! Many Red Sox fans are convinced that
their team still suffers from trading away Babe Ruth in 1919, and
they’ll point to the grounder that trickled through Bill Buckner’s legs to
lose the 1986 Series.

Occasionally, there’s a manager who senses the spirit of the game, like
the Giants’ Dusty Baker, who has an uncanny knack for finding the hot
hitter or the charmed pitcher. Amid all the mathematics, there’s a lot
of luck, and the best teams seem to roll with this mysterious spirit of
the game.

I’ve found a similar aspect in my spiritual life. Yes, I need to follow
the wisdom of the Book, but that wisdom is energized and applied as I
keep in step with the Spirit of God. The Book by itself leads me to a
stale legalism, but the Spirit helps me roll with the ups and downs of
life.

Baseball is a team sport of individual matchups. Teamwork is as
valuable in baseball as in any other sport, but each pitch pits one pitcher
against one batter. At any given moment, the spotlight is on one
player–catching, throwing, hitting, running. In that moment, your teammates
can’t help you. It’s up to you.

And yet baseball requires many different skills and few have them all.
You have sluggers and slap hitters, starting pitchers and closers,
pinch hitters and defensive replacements. Yankees’ manager Joe Torre built
one of the game’s greatest teams ever by using their different gifts.
To be sure, the Yankees have some great players, but they’re not a team
of superstars. Their glory is in the way each player plays his part.

Life, too, is a team sport, but the pressure is still on individuals to
do their best at any given moment. I am part of a church, but I can’t
expect the church to do my religion for me. I need to be seeking God in
my own life and fitting my own gifts with the gifts of others. None of
us can make a dent in the world’s problems single-handedly, but as a
team we can pull together to play a pretty good game.

Elder L. Tom Perry on Fathers as Temporal Providers

Elder L. Tom Perry on Fathers as Temporal Providers

“Fathers, by divine decree, you are to preside over your family units.
This is a sobering responsibility and the most important one you will ever
assume, for it is an eternal responsibility. You place the family in its
proper priority. It’s the part of your life that will endure beyond the
grave. I testify that the following statement is true:

“
‘The position which men occupy in the family, and especially those who
hold the Melchizedek Priesthood, is one of first importance and should be
clearly recognized and maintained in the order and with the authority which
God conferred upon man in placing him at the head of his
household.

” ‘. . . There is no higher authority in
matters relating to the family organization, and especially when that
organization is presided over by one holding the higher priesthood, than
that of the father. . . . The patriarchal order is of divine origin and
will continue throughout time and eternity. There is then a particular
reason why men, women, and children should understand this order and this
authority in the households of the people of God, and seek to make it what
God intended it to be, a qualification and preparation for the highest
exaltation of His children. In the home the presiding authority is always
vested in the father, and in all home affairs and family matters there is
no other authority paramount’ (Joseph F. Smith, “The Rights of
Fatherhood,” Juvenile Instructor, 1 Mar. 1902, 146.).

( “Fatherhood, an Eternal Calling,” Ensign, May 2004, 72)

Just Between Us

I wish that I could have seen his face when he answered the phone. Even though I was married to Marty, I still called home when I needed him.

“Dad, my garage door broke . . . “

“Well, do you need me to pick up a new spring?”

“No. I think I kind of need you to come over. You see, I had places to go and people to see, so while I couldn’t pull out like usual, I, um, tried to turn my van around.”

“You did what?”

“I tried to turn my van around, you know, like a U-turn. I tried to turn the van and head out the other garage door!” I confessed while stifling my giggles.

For a moment there was silence. I could imagine my father sitting in his favorite chair trying to picture what his youngest daughter had attempted. While he thought, I assessed my situation and concluded there was no way I wanted my husband to come home from work and see my creative attempt to get to the mall.

Within moments my father’s thoughts broke into words. “Honey, did you make it out the other door? What exactly do you need for me to do?”

I took a deep breath and tried to find an appropriate way to break the news, yet nothing came to mind. As I had done my entire life, I swallowed hard and then presented my problem to my father.

“Dad, it’s like this. My van is stuck in my garage.”

Stuck?”

“Yeah, stuck, sideways.”

“Sideways?”

“Dad, I thought that I could turn it around. I simply began backing up and going forward, trying to maneuver my van around so that I could exit out of the second garage door. I had a full tank of gas and I was doing a good job of getting it out myself until now, and well, can you come over and get me out of this mess before Marty gets home from work?”

Within minutes my dad had left his chair and was standing in my garage surveying my dilemma. He scratched his head, placed his hands on his hips and assured me that he had “never seen such a thing.” Then without saying a word, yet wearing a grin that hinted, “now I’ve seen it all,” he crawled into the driver’s seat and began inching his way, slowly turning the van.

I crawled up on the workbench and watched. My dad caught my eye and gave me a wink. Holding my hand over my mouth, I tried to control my laughter as my father repeatedly drove my van three feet forward then three feet in reverse, while maneuvering the steering wheel. I thought of Marty surprising me, coming home early, finding his father-in-law “driving” in his garage and me cheering him on with passion!

Instantly, I flashed back to the many times my dad had come to my rescue, not questioning me as to the “how or why” of my predicament, but concentrating on the “what now” and the solution. It was no secret – my dad knew that I thought “outside the box.” In fact, he’d been one to believe in my dreams, support my attempts and praise my accomplishments. I pondered his patience, wisdom and endless love for me. Today was no different. I knew for certain that, no matter what, I could always call on my dad.

An hour before Marty arrived home, my father beamed as he drove the van out the second garage door and parked it in the driveway. I walked out to meet him, and he rolled down his window.

“Problem solved,” he said.

“Just between us?” I asked, securing our secret.

“Between us,” he nodded. “Yep, this one is ‘just between us,’ because no one would ever believe it!”

Reprinted by permission of Janet Lynn Mitchell (c) 2004 from Chicken Soup for the Father & Daughter Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Nancy Autio, Patty Aubery and LeAnn Thieman. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

Humor: Who’s the Boss?

One evening a preschooler, Kristel, and her parents were sitting on the couch chatting. Kristel asked, ” Daddy, you’re the boss of the house, right?” Her father proudly replied, “Yes, I am the boss of the house.” But Kristel added “Cause Mommy put you in charge, huh Daddy?”

Dad’s Poem, A

Her hair was up in a pony tail
her favorite dress tied with a bow
Today was Daddy’s Day at school
and she couldn’t wait to go

But her Mommy tried to tell her
that she probably should stay home
Why the kids might not understand
if she went to school alone.

But she was not afraid
she knew just what to say
What to tell her classmates
of why he wasn’t there today

But still her mother worried
for her to face this day alone
And that was why once again
she tried to keep her daughter home

But the little girl went to school
eager to tell them all
About a dad she never sees
a dad who never calls

There were daddies along the wall in back
for everyone to meet
Children squirming impatiently
anxious in their seats

One by one the teacher called
a student from the class
To introduce their daddy
as seconds slowly passed

At last the teacher called her name
every child turned to stare
Each of them was searching
for a man who wasn’t there

“Where’s her daddy at?”
she heard a boy call out
“She probably doesn’t have one,”
another student dared to shout.

And from somewhere near the back,
she heard a daddy say,
“Looks like another deadbeat dad,
too busy to waste his day.”

The words did not offend her,
as she smiled up at her Mom.
And looked back at her teacher,
who told her to go on.

And with hands behind her back,
slowly she began to speak.
And out from the mouth of a child,
came words incredibly unique.

“My Daddy couldn’t be here,
because he lives so far away.
But I know he wishes he could be,
since this is such a special day.

And though you cannot meet him,
I wanted you to know.
All about my daddy,
and how much he loves me so.

“He loved to tell me stories
he taught me to ride my bike.
He surprised me with pink roses,
and taught me to fly a kite.

“We used to share fudge sundaes,
and ice cream in a cone.
And though you cannot see him.
I’m not standing here alone.

“Cause my daddy’s always with me,
even though we are apart
I know because he told me,
he’ll forever be in my heart”

With that, her little hand reached up,
and lay across her chest.
Feeling her own heartbeat,
beneath her favorite dress.

And from somewhere here in the crowd of dads,
her mother stood in tears.
Proudly watching her daughter,
who was wise beyond her years.

For she stood up for the love
of a man not in her life.
Doing what was best for her,
doing what was right.

And when she dropped her hand back down,
staring straight into the crowd.
She finished with a voice so soft,
but its message clear and loud.

“I love my daddy very much,
he’s my shining star.
And if he could, he’d be here,
but heaven’s just too far

You see he was a policeman
and died just this past year
When airplanes hit the towers
and taught Americans to fear.

But sometimes when I close my eyes,
it’s like he never went away.”
And then she closed her eyes,
and saw him there that day.

And to her mother’s amazement,
she witnessed with surprise.
A room full of daddies and children,
all starting to close their eyes.

Who knows what they saw before them,
who knows what they felt inside.
Perhaps for merely a second,
they saw him at her side.

“I know you’re with me Daddy,”
to the silence she called out.
And what happened next made believers
of those once filled with doubt.

Not one in that room could explain it,
for each of their eyes had been closed.
But there on the desk beside her,
was a fragrant long-stemmed pink rose

And a child was blessed, if only for a moment,
by the love of her shining star.
And given the gift of believing,
that heaven is never too far.

Humor: Driver’s Permit

A young man had just gotten his driver’s permit and inquired of his father, an evangelist, if they could discuss the use of the car. His father took him to the study and said to the boy, “I’ll make a deal with you, son. You bring your grades up from a C to a B- average, study your Bible a little, and get your hair cut and we’ll talk about the car.”

Well, the boy thought about that for a moment and decided that he’d best settle for the offer, and they agreed.

After about six weeks the boy came back and again asked his father about the car. Again they went to the study where his father said, “Son, I’ve been real proud of you. You’ve brought your grades up, and I’ve observed that you’ve been studying your Bible and participating a lot more in the Bible study class on Sunday morning. But I’m real disappointed seeing as you haven’t got your hair cut.”

The young man paused a moment and then said, “You know, Dad, I’ve been thinking about that, and I’ve noticed in my studies of the Bible that Sampson had long hair, Moses had long hair, John the Baptizer had long hair, and there’s even strong argument that Jesus Himself had long hair.”

To which his father replied, “Perhaps, and they WALKED everywhere they went!”

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