Guest Post by My Dad

Neil C. Strait said, “The best gift a father can give to his son is the gift of himself – his time. For material things mean little, if there is not someone to share them with.”

In my own life, I learned this too late. This fall our eldest daughter, Emily Wierenga, is publishing an autobiographical book about her battle with an eating disorder, Chasing Silhouettes. I am very proud of her accomplishment as an author, but unfortunately some sections of the book reflect poorly on me. My daughter perceives that the lack of time and attention I gave her was a big factor in her developing anorexia, ‘starving for attention’ as it were.

She recalls this about the years between ages 9 and 13:

“Days filled with frowns, fierce yells and fists pounding against my father’s chest… Dad loved us by doing his job so well he put ministry before family. He’d kiss us on the cheeks early in the morning and lead Bible devotions and sigh when we asked him questions on Sermon-Writing day. I hated Sermon-Writing day. I got baptized at age eight because Dad said I should and I wanted to please him the same way I wanted to please God. I associated God with my father—a distant, unemotional man who said he loved me yet was too busy to show it. One year later, I realized that even though I’d gotten baptized, Dad still didn’t ask me how I was doing, not really, and so God still didn’t care. Not really.”

My preoccupation with my job (notwithstanding it was a ‘religious’ one) provoked my child to anger – exasperated her – caused her to become bitter and discouraged. I was pushing to go ‘faster’ in my career, at the expense of being a father. In our desperation to save our daughter’s life, we turned eventually to a Christian counsellor. Among other things, he asked me to describe my daughter in detail. I soon realized I didn’t know my daughter very well, couldn’t describe the uniqueness of her individuality because I hadn’t really taken the time or focussed my energy to get to know her.

The King James Version renders Ephesians 6:4, “And, ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath: but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.” NURTURE – that’s what I was missing out in raising Emily. Being careful to ‘feed into’ her life. Taking time (as she notes) to ask her how she was doing – really.

Sigmund Freud didn’t follow Biblical wisdom in his practice of psychology, but he did nevertheless make some astute observations about human nature. He said, “I could not point to any need in childhood as strong as that for a father’s protection.” This Father’s Day – and all other days of the year when we’re tempted to go ‘faster’ rather than father – may the Lord help us slow down enough to treasure our children and truly nurture them, love into their lives, rather than embittering and exasperating them.

(my Dad is one of the most humble men i know, and while we still don’t totally ‘get’ each other, we love each other deeply and foster a deep and nurturing relationship. you will find more of our story here, in a talk we did last summer at Hungry for Hope. happy father’s day, friends!!)

(picture of my Dad, Ernest Dow, with my oldest son, Aiden Grey)

Elizabeth’s Kites (Guest Post on ED Blog)

My father said I was “too bad” to attend the neighborhood public elementary school.

And yet one fine, glorious, sunny, windy day, he broke his own rule.

Two kites magically appeared, and he and I galloped the few blocks away, up and down the hills around the school, our kites rising high and free as the blustery cold wind howled and landed in stings on my skin. I was so happy to be playing, to unabashedly feel, make noise and still be safe.

The Wind muffled my squeals of delight as only Wind can.

Suddenly, my kite careened into a huge tree. How could I have let this happen? Fear and shame filled my little girl body. Here I was being bad again. Was this yet another example of why I couldn’t go to this school?

But this time he didn’t mock, he wasn’t cruel. Instead, he safely brought down my kite. It was a little battered but still a kite.

We went home. I never saw the kites again.

Years went by. I visited the outskirts of the same school as an older child, running up and down the hills, this time as punishment for the extra slice of homemade bread I had eaten at dinner. Surely I had been bad, so surely I would pay. As I ran in laps around the school in my heavy winter clothes, the memory of the little girl and her kite flooded my mind. I told God I hated her. I vowed her playful loving self would never surface again. I also vowed to forever hate my father who now only came out of his cocoon of mental illness in moments for violence or social ineptness.

The Wind braced my tears and rage as only Wind can.

Many more years have gone by. This month I am allured by the challenge to go fly a kite, to honor both the little girl and her father.

For I am my Father’s Kite! My Father is guiding me around the elements and beautifully displaying me as only He can. I am a little battered, but I am still His.

The Wind brings my memories together and blows gently, warmly,
integrating the past with the present, as only Wind can.

Thank you, dear Elizabeth Grainger, for sharing this touching post with us. May you always feel the Father’s love gently guiding you…