I
wasn’t very old when I began to notice that something about my life was
different from those around me. Throughout school and the early years of my
social existence, I slowly came to the realization that my parents were different
from others. A friend I made in third grade brought this fact into stark focus.
He lived with his grandparents as a stowaway child in the midst of a retirement
community. The neighborhood’s regulations disallowed children, which forced him
to stay constantly inside and subsist on television and video games. His mother
was never to be seen, and I was never sure if she was still alive or just
neglected him entirely. His father was, at best, an inconsistent and shady
figure in my friend’s life, as he managed to neglect basic parental
responsibilities such as holding a steady job in exchange for a hefty amount of
smoking dope. More often than not, I found their father-son roles reversed, with
a father that refused to be an adult. My friend grew up with grandparents that
cared for him and in a home that loved him, but I couldn’t help but realize
that something was different. My friend eventually moved out of my life, but I’ll
never forget the lesson that I learned because of his misfortunes. It was such
a contrast to my own childhood that it has etched into my mind the greatest
purpose parents can achieve, merely to be there for their children.
As I have matured, I’ve often felt
that I knew how to be a parent, and it was always my dream to have my own family.
While my musings and philosophizing about being a father may have been no more
profound or correct than an ape contemplating the stars and galaxies, the fact
remains that I always felt confident in the face of fatherhood. That all
changed in May, when my wife received a positive result in a take-home
pregnancy test. Immediately, doubt lifted its ugly head and let out a derisive
snort. “You’re no father,” it chuckled. For a moment, I believed the idea. For
only a moment, I sank into a fearful despair. Yet, in the darkened recesses of
my mind, a timid voice cried out. “Yes, I am!” I believed that voice. I
reflected on my own childhood, and on the examples that it gave through my own
parents. At that moment, I realized an indelible truth. I know that I will be a
good father, because of the love, support, and teaching that my parents gave
me.
My parents have never been perfect. They
sometimes had to scrape and sidle by when it came to providing for my siblings
and me. I saw many of the struggles that it takes for one human being to guide
and raise another. On the other hand, I witnessed a great amount of unconditional
love and caring, which nourished far better than material goods. One particular
method my parents used to convey this love was by attention and quality time.
During my early teenage years, my father would spend hours outdoors with my
brothers and myself, both having a catch with us and hitting pop flies for us
to field. Even though he had countless projects to pursue and a hundred other
worries and concerns, he rarely hesitated to give me a large portion of his
time, and by so doing, show outwardly his inward affection and love. Because of
those times in my youth, I have never felt without love or concern. By
remembering the importance of love and attention, I will be a good father.
When it came to expectations, my
parents were always very open and accommodating. They tried never to allow me
to achieve less than my full potential, but did so in a non-invasive manner
that allowed me free reign to seek out my own way of accomplishing goals. They
allowed me to be a child, to have imagination and to seek for the Neverland, or
something like it. One goal they did gently teach me to work for was to serve a
full-time mission for my church. I sought for this goal, but in the summer of
2007, this goal seemed beyond my reach. I was nearly denied my ability to serve
a mission; instead of outright denial though, my mission was merely delayed.
Nearly a year would lapse in the interim. It was a very dark period for me, and
I struggled in several areas of my life. I strangled most ties with old friends,
and crept deep into video games to lessen the pains around me. I kept a shoddy
job at a nearby bookstore, and wondered if I ever would really go on my
mission. One dark, cold winter morning I reached a low point. I turned to my
father and told him how I wasn’t even sure I would go on my mission and that I
felt I’d missed my chance. I didn’t fear a violent response, but I did expect
disappointment or something similar. Without missing a beat however, my father
simply said, “Okay.” He responded in such a supportive way, and I found
tremendous strength in his response. I felt okay for feeling this way, and I
felt a strong support I had forgotten existed. In my vacuum of self-doubt and
numb-mindedness, my father’s reaction was a beacon of light and rejuvenation.
It helped me wake up, and throw off the weights keeping me bound. In spite of
my fears, I did serve a full-time mission. I learned and grew during those two
years in ways and depths that I would not have comprehended had I neglected my
goal and stayed home. My father showed me that sometimes help is more important
than right and wrong. By keeping me grounded in my roots, my father helped
support my own fledgling growth.
Finally, arguably the most important
role for a parent to fulfill is that of teacher and mentor. Whether it is
instruction on mundane grammar rules, or guidance that helps one to realize
their purpose and joy in life, parents are required to teach and direct their
children to those things that will bring happiness and fulfillment. Throughout
my childhood, my parents bombarded me with lessons and learning opportunities.
I can vividly remember watching my favorite movie, Star Wars. Just after Darth
Vader chopped off Luke Skywalker’s hand, Vader offers his recently revealed son
a choice. He can join him, live, and rule the galaxy with his father. Luke,
however, opts to jump off the catwalk into an abyss. As he fell through the
air, my mother suddenly blurted out, “See? Even though he could die, he still
is choosing what he knows is right.” When she initially did this, I wanted to
slap my face in exasperation. How silly of my mother to adhere a quaint,
homemade lesson to this master epic of galaxies and war. However, I still
remember that lesson to this day. In whatever way they found possible, my
parents taught and instructed me to prepare me for life as an adult, in which
I’d have my own tough decisions to make. To be a good father, I will teach my
children as well.
John Wilmot once said, “Before I got
married I had six theories about bringing up children; now I have six children,
and no theories.” I am in a similar pickle; I am full of theories, but no
results. However, when confronted with challenges in the present, people
instinctively look to their past for answers. In my challenge of being a good
father to my child, I have a great past to draw upon. I have the examples of my
parents, who raised me with love, support and instruction. I know to spend time
with my daughter. I know to allow her to find her own way and to be supportive.
I will cherish watching her fulfill her own dreams, use her imagination, and
find her Neverland, or something like it. I will be a great father, and I can’t
wait to get started.
