Holding a Father’s Hand


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For long stretches, the boys turned from bodies-in-motion to bodies-in-wonder as they stood out in the waves and watched the ocean water crashing in upon their legs. Β I’m sure they squealed at the wonder of it all, but their noises did not reach me as I sat on the sand. Β I marveled at the scene. Β The waves were powerful forces that represented equal parts wonder and danger. Β But the boys did not waver before the waves for they held their father’s hand.

No automatic alt text available.Holding my father’s hand, I have learned that strength is both fought for (feet pounding upon pavement for miles)Β and received (hands open in humility). Β Not sought for its own sake, strength is nurtured for the process of creating something true, something beautiful, and something enduring for the world to enjoy. Β  My father has been my gardener who cultivates within me a curiosity for life’s mysteries, appreciation for humanity’s story, and the practice of sowing kindness lavishly over all soil. Β I am who I am because I have held my father’s hand.

Holding my husband’s hand, I have learned that life is better lived in collaboration. Β Alone, I can ensure the survival of our sons. Β  Together, we can ensure the flourishing of them. Β He is my partner with whom we are crazy enough to believe that we can raise these boys no matter what the day brings. Β He is steadfast and content in a way that tempers my intensity. Β He nurtures the boys’ courage to take risks and exemplifies fidelity to his commitments. Β  Our boys are becoming who they are because they hold their father’s hands.

The waves are full of wonder and full of danger, but hand-in-hand we persist and are transformed.

For all the fathers who hold hands, I pause and give thanks.


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