Wednesday, January 21, 2009

The Chosen Father

God has chosen me to be a father.

It is my task now to find patience,
to answer difficult questions,
to allow small hands to participate
in what I am doing,
no matter how counterproductive.

It is up to me to lead,
to quell my own quaking fear
when things go bump in the night.

It is my lot to watch carefully
to guard against tragedy
without spoiling the adventure.

Sometimes I must frown meaningfully
and speak words sharpened
with a threat of punishment.

And always, I must put aside my fears,
and recklessness.

It is a strange paradox
to discard of necessity all the things
that made me a child,
yet discover them again
as a gift from my children
to their father.

1 comment:

  1. This poem came following the birth of Stuart, when he was toddling, crashing about the house and directing his face at every sharp object in sight. Now, in the "kid-free zone," as we like to joke, I have been thinking back over the last 25 years, partly wishing those days had moved along a little slower or that I had been more awake to the gifts God had bestowed upon me. Ahh, but such is the passage of time.