There is a story in our family that my dad tells of when he was almost drafted into the Vietnam war. My mom was very pregnant with my brother. The draft letter told him to report for a final physical at the bus (or train?) station before leaving for training. He and my mom made it to the station, prepared to say goodbye. He left my mom for a minute and went into a makeshift exam room. The doctor looked him over, and noticed a scar on my dad's shoulder. He asked my dad about it, and my dad said it was from a dislocated shoulder, the result of an old football injury. The doc was quiet for a while, and then he said, "I could probably go ahead and clear you for active duty. You've told me that it doesn't hurt too much. But son, you've flunked your physical. Now get the hell out of here, and don't come back." My dad took my mom's hand and they ran.I write a lot about motherhood on this blog. Because I am a mother, and mothers are mostly the ones who visit. It's not Father's Day, but I'd like to dedicate this post to fathers anyway. To my own father, whose eyes lit up when one of us came into the room, who told me how gorgeous I was, who laid out Valentine's gifts on our bed (girly things, like pretty white gloves, and bubble bath), who protected me from my own brattiness as a teenager, who came between me and an angry neighbor, when I wrote my name all over her wet cement, who sadly cleaned up the beer cans that were scattered on our lawn by an angry ex-boyfriend, and never told me about it, and who guessed all of our secrets, and kept them. He's the dad by which all other dads should be measured. I hope you all feel the same about yours. Take a minute, now, if you are reading, and appreciate all of the sacrifice of your own father.
To the dad of my kids, my own dear James, I thank him for being my protector. I thank him for standing watchfully in the shadows, trying his best to delay a stressful church calling that was looming, because he knew I wasn't physically strong enough yet. I thank him for being the only friend I could turn to, when my feelings were hurt, and for knowing my secrets, and keeping them. I thank him for stepping between me and an angry, crazy landlady, and absorbing the anger himself. I thank him for protecting me from my own children, when they threaten to drink the last of the water that is in my emotional and literal cup, for hearing the buzzer that goes off in my head when I've had enough for the night, and taking over. Accepting protection doesn't mean that you couldn't protect yourself, if you had to, it just means you don't have to. Take a minute, now, if you are reading, and appreciate the protection of the fathers of your children.
I thank the protector of my soul. The One who came between me and justice. Take a minute now, if you are reading this, and appreciate the love of your God, and your Lord.
For our protectors, whether we think we need them or not, let us be grateful, and rejoice that they were created to do what they do.
