A Dad’s Long Shadow

I remember the day I found out my Dad, once upon a time, had gotten a “D” in one of his math classes. I felt like I had been released from Alcatraz. My Dad is a meticulous man. I learned from him the value of doing it right the first time; measuring twice, cutting once; using the right tool for the right job; and many other  countless principles that are interwoven into the deep recesses of my brain. I also learned, by the time I was in the 7th grade, that it was best to leave my math book in my locker. That strategy would work for awhile, maybe an entire grading period. But when the final verdict got spelled out on my report card I knew that the Math Wars would commence again. Whenever my Dad and I sat down to work on my math homework the evening would unfold in dramatic fashion. There were, of course, variations on the subplots, but the core events remained consistent.To establish the backdrop you should know that my Dad is, by training, a mechanical engineer. You should also know that the notion that higher math might become irrelevant the day I leave school (“I’l never need to know this crap out in the real world”) was completely lost on my Dad. He makes use of the quadratic formula AND the pythagorean theorem on a daily basis. You should also know that I am a lazy person, and that I use a calculator to do simple addition.The battle usually took place at the kitchen table. As we sat down with my scribbled, poorly done math homework the questions began. Lots of questions. Questions about the problems I hadn’t completed, the ones I had completed, and the extra ones I should have done. My Dad had perfected the socratic method into an instrument of torture.Less than 20 minutes into the battle the tears would begin. My Mom would step in to defend her middle child, and Dad would explain the dangers of sending a math deficient citizen into the cold world. Nobody was having fun. Then, one day, in the midst of a casual kitchen conversation, my Dad mentioned his less than stellar grade in a semester of higher math.  I did a double-take, certain that I had heard wrong. When he confirmed the good news I danced a jig around the kitchen that left my Dad a little puzzled. Dad’s reaction to my celebration makes sense to me now. He truly had no idea how long his shadow was from where I sat. He did not know how perfect, how ominously perfect, I perceived him to be. He was the man who knew everything and struggled with nothing. That day my Dad became a bit more like me.

Now, about 30 years later, I have two sons of my own.  And, in spite of my obvious flaws, my guess is they might occasionally see me the way I saw my Dad. One night as I was tucking my youngest son, Carter, into bed we made a deal:  I would scratch his back as long he would answer my questions about his day.  We both got what we wanted.  He lives for a good back scratch, and I wanted to hear him talk about anything and everything.“So, Carter, are you going to miss roller hockey now that the season is over?”“What was the best part about your day?”“How are things with your friends?”“Carter, what have you been afraid of lately?”This question about fear stumped him.  I’ve asked him this one before, and occasionally we’ll talk about something that has really been bothering him.  But that night he couldn’t come up with a single fear.  So, like an experienced conversationalist, he turned the question around on me:“What about you, Dad?  Is there anything you’ve been afraid of lately?”A few things came to mind, and as I wrestled with what would be appropriate to discuss with my 11 year old son, I recalled the ominously long shadow that fathers can cast in front of their sons.  I wondered if Carter had the perception that his Dad didn’t fear anything.So, we talked for the next several minutes about me, a few of my fears, why I have them, and where they come from.  Oh, I still played it close to the vest.  There are certain things an 11 year shouldn’t have to process.  But, as we talked about my fears, a few of his own surfaced.  The comforting presence of a fellow struggler opened up a room to his psyche that had been closed a few minutes before.  That night we realized that we are afraid in many of the same ways.  We swapped stories, compared notes, and together tried to figure out a way to move forward without letting fear control us.  It was a conversation that I almost missed out on.  It was the best hour of my week that almost slipped by me.  I’m confident that somewhere, back in the recesses of my mind, the humble example of my Dad gave me the courage to appear a little more human in front of my son.That night, in spite of me fumbling through our conversation, and in spite of my uncertainty, I became a little more like Carter.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.1 Corinthians 13:11

Now I am the Dad of two men. Austin is almost 24, and Carter is 21. These days the three of us can discuss manly things while we enjoy a cold beer. Austin grows a beard that gives me follicle envy. Carter is twice the drummer I aspire to be. Both of them are taller then me. These experiences represent such a strange reversal of roles. I can remember holding each of them in my arms, watching them take their first steps, teaching them how to ride a bike. Both of them loved to sit on my shoulders and use the top of my head as a shelf for their young chins. It's not like I didn't see this inevitability coming. I mean, that's what little boys generally do — grow into young men. But, when the boys were young daily parenting was such an intense experience it was almost impossible to imagine them as adults.What I've learned over this last season of life is that these role reversals were just the beginning. Lately the boys and I have had several weighty and meaningful discussions. We've talked about grace, consequences, failure, and trust. And here's the thing: in many of these conversations I have been the student, not the teacher. At times I have heard my own words spoken long ago come back my way, now delivered through the filter of their own experiences. At other times they have given me the gift of something uniquely their own — a view of life that has left me wondering how they have acquired such wisdom.One son is a strategist and has a deep sense of justice built into his personality. He has offered incredibly wise counsel and thoughtful analysis during a very complex season of life.Another son is an artist with a deep love of theology. He has reminded me of eternal truths in moments when I have been tempted to despair.Both have offered life-giving words, confronted me with brutal honesty, and have extended to me the grace that I have occasionally offered them. I have been amazed at the maturity they have displayed. Our relationships have grown into a different kind of friendship, and I am grateful beyond words.I suppose this is the natural course of things. A Dad's long shadow shortens a bit (or a lot) as a young man finds his way in a complex world. Coming to terms with the humanity and failures of those we've looked up to is, to some degree, inevitable. A relationship that was once built on authority and stature softens into a lifelong friendship that can endure. One day the role reversal will be complete and they may find themselves feeding me breakfast or wiping away my drool. But, until that time my hope is that we will share many experiences that will deepen our bonds, bring unexpected tears, and unbridled laughter.