Men who fulfill

Dad was born in Maine in January 1933. He was the second child and son born to his parents, though his older brother died at a very young age. A sister and another brother were born in subsequent years, and they were raised together by God-fearing parents in southern Maine. Grandpa was a carpenter. Dad learned many skills from him. Gram taught briefly. She was frugal, but not cheap. During the Great Depression and World War II years when sugar, eggs, and other staples were rationed, Gram celebrated her children's half-birthdays as an excuse to bake cakes for them, since sweets were rare luxuries. Dad fondly remembered his mother's justification for that tradition.

Grandpa died of a heart attack when I was six years old. I remember what he looked like and that he was a kind man, but I never really knew him. I regret that. I regret further that I didn't ask my father more about his father. I know that Grandpa did not show much warmth toward his children; he was part of a generation that did not behave that way. As a result, my father struggled to interact with his children when we were young. Well, he struggled with me. My siblings say they don't remember that happening with them, but I suspect that his age contributed to his difficulties with me.

Dad was 28 when my eldest sibling was born. He had completed graduate school and was working full-time as a teacher. By the time I arrived, he was 36. The family had moved twice since my eldest sibling's birth, and Dad's employment was forty-five minutes from home. He was serving as an elder in our church, which was thirty minutes from home in the opposite direction from his work. Between the two, he had obligations most weeknights that kept him out late. He had papers to grade, lessons to plan, and elders' meetings to attend, while trying to balance his responsibilities as a husband and father. When I was born, child number five, his energy was stretched too thin to spend time on the floor with me the way he had with the first four. He later told me, "I had no idea how to relate to you when you were little."

Don't misunderstand me here. I loved him very much. He supported me throughout my life. He told me he loved me, even though it wasn't a natural element of his everyday speech. When he said it, his voice was always full of emotion. That was Dad's way; he used words meaningfully.

That does not change the fact that he did not connect with me emotionally when I was very young. Most of my childhood memories of him come from confrontations. He was used to how my brother would respond to his commands for help. When I made mistakes or acted slowly, it frustrated him, and he showed it. Most of the time, it was because I didn't understand what he wanted. I had no idea how to tell him that when he gave me multiple-step instructions, I couldn't remember them after the second step. I was always confused by what he was saying to me, and I was terrified to ask again, because he would become sarcastic and short with me.

I didn't know how to tell Dad that I took him literally. If he told me not to do something with the farm equipment, I wouldn't do it. If he told me I could do it, I would. But if a special circumstance came up and he tried to tell me to do the opposite without explaining why it was okay, I refused. Dad didn't understand me, and I didn't know how to explain myself to him. I was too young to comprehend these things. He didn't know me because he hadn't spent any time observing me as a kid.

Dad died in 2021. He was 88 years old. I miss him. There is so much I wanted to share and do with him as an adult. Our relationship was at its strongest when he was a widower for five years. During that time, we had each other to support, and the fellowship was very good. However, when that time ended, his new situation yanked him from me almost entirely for his final 28 years on earth. We saw each other when we could, but the depth of love from before had been hijacked by someone who refused to share him with his kids, who also told anyone who would listen that his kids had abandoned him. The lie was pernicious and fractured many formerly good relationships. Dad was torn between the parties, but he stood by his choice in his second marriage to the end. In that regard, he failed to step up.

In my life, though, it is my brother who steps up. My brothers-in-law step up. I strive to step up. All of us loved Dad, but we recognize how much better many experiences could have been. They have stepped up for me, for my wife, and for our kids. They have taught me how to love my wife and children, how to be a husband and father. They have shown me how to provide for my family and help others. They demonstrate forgiveness, peace, and self-control.

I love my wife, who is my best friend and helpmeet. She is the godliest woman I know, and I pray for her daily. Even after 28 years of marriage, I must grow as a husband-- to love and treasure this dear woman. I am nowhere near a great dad (as I measure greatness), but I love my sons, and I pray for them. I tell them I love them. I value time with them. I seek the best for their lives.

Many other men have stepped up to mentor and guide me over the years. Friends' dads, teachers, professors, pastors, elders, colleagues, and friends have taken the opportunities presented to them to offer wisdom, compassion, and counsel. It would be impossible to number them all. And I have done my best to step up for others, to mentor and guide young people in the ways of life and faith, and to encourage my peers to grapple with trials while leaning on the everlasting arms.

Men who fulfill their responsibilities in life are increasingly difficult to find. We must be men of humility and determination, able to accept responsibility for failure, willing to demonstrate vulnerability, yet ready to get up and keep moving. We must step up for our own, and when we see a need unmet, we must step up for others.

This piece was inspired by a situation last week in which a young acquaintance reached out to me in a crisis. He looked for guidance and understanding in the middle of a terrible experience, and I was humbled that he considered me a safe older adult to trust. That reminded me of the men who have stepped up in my life.