Sometimes the tumblers click. You’re sitting in a familiar space, no expectations, and you can feel the hum in your bones. A million gears align and harmonize and for a moment you feel like you’ve been here before. You have— for it’s the sense of timelessness, the stars aligning and the angels singing. Their song is meaning and your devotion has been worthwhile. In the fullness of the moment you witness the rises and falls, the pain and the joy. And you are thankful for the message. Thankful for the faith that guided you when all seemed…
Most every parent wants their children to have it better than they had it. The details of “better” are often not fleshed out, often dwell in the shadows of lack, adversity, and disappointment. It can be hard to put a finger on it, to touch it, so that many reach for something tangible. But the “better” for me has never been something material. Actually, it was a release of the material and three generations of scraping by. And each generation had a push, a formless cog in the tumblers whose motion begged for something better and authentic.
In life’s scrapbook the photos are typically of rituals and proud moments. Candid moments that seem to define so well the life-force in the subject. Rarely do we find the scraps and bruises that were an integral part of the story. The rise from the fall, the head hanging, and the “What the heck!?!?”
On this Path, as a father, I’ve always wanted my sons to have it better—not because of what didn’t work in the past—for later on the path you realize that it is all one story. And sometimes you don’t get to choose. For me, that something better was always about the opportunity for clarity, for authenticity. For them to see who they are when it is hardest to see.
There is a beautiful saying that applies to A Father’s Path:
Prepare the child for the road, not the road for the child.
It is their road. And their path. And this is not a selfish notion for only when children discover what is best and brightest inside, can they give and serve others. Gifts are nothing unless given.
Sometimes the tumblers click. They have to… Angels sing on cold spring nights and only you can hear. Only you can feel the roar of momentum, of purpose, hear the sweet song of faith that is not composed for the uncommitted. Wounds heal and the force grows stronger. In that timeless space, you hear it, you feel the eternal in your bones, the tingle in your fingerprints and you will never be the same. The path ahead remains unprepared. But you have faith that you are…