A preacher once shared with me a sobering observation about Mother’s Day
He said Mother’s Day is not always a cause for celebration. For some people, the occasion can be painful if their relationship with their own mother was troubled or they felt they had been neglected growing up. Hearing the praises about other mothers only reminds them of how their own mother fell short.
I don’t know how common this reaction is, but I suspect it’s even more common regarding fathers, especially in communities like ours, where the majority of fathers don’t live in the same household with their children. They may try to maintain a relationship with their offspring, but it’s just not the same.
The children, in many cases, suffer for it.
Children need the constant presence of a mother and father, preferably married to each other, to love and guide them. Both parents bring something to the equation. Mothers are the nurturers and the comforters, the ones you go to when you’re sad or sick. Fathers are the protectors and the ones who seem more adept at setting boundaries and instilling discipline.
Too much of either can spoil or discourage a child, but in equal measure, the odds improve that the child will grow up happy and well-adjusted.
A lot is made about how destructive it can be for young males to be without a father figure in their lives to rein them in when they stray, but it’s also hard on young females. They learn from their fathers how women should expect to be treated. If a father is absent or abusive to their mother, the daughters grow up thinking that’s just the way it is between couples. But if their father is committed to their mother and treats her with love and respect, they’re less likely to settle for something much less.
I have mixed feelings about my own father, who died 27 years ago.
He was a hard worker and a good provider. He was a weekly church-goer. He didn’t abuse alcohol or drugs. And I know that he loved me.
But he wasn’t a great husband, and he wasn’t a great father to all of my siblings. Some of this was my mother’s fault. My parents were poorly matched, two strong-willed people who wanted to be in charge. It didn’t help that they had seven children. I’m glad, of course, they did. If they hadn’t, I wouldn’t be writing this, as I was the last of the seven. But that large of a family — and adding my mother’s mother to the mix — brought a lot of stress and conflict to their marriage. They were rarely on the same page about how to run their household.
I hold this more against him than her. I suppose that’s because when they eventually divorced while I was a young teen, she stayed committed to her children, in good times and in bad. Meanwhile, he started a new life in California with a new wife and her family. I wouldn’t say that I felt betrayed by him. More like disappointed.
As I grew up, I tried not to emulate my father, but there are parts of me that I know come from his DNA. My wife, Betty Gail, said that when I’m doing yard work, I remind her of my dad. When he would come to visit us in Greenwood, he would help out with the yard, sweating heavily in the Delta summer humidity to which he was not accustomed. Betty Gail thinks she will find me one day keeled over in the Bermuda, having flirted with a heat stroke one too many times.
As to what kind of father I’ve been, I’ll leave that to my two children to judge. The verdict may still be out as long as I’m breathing.
On Friday, I attended a beautiful funeral Mass for Barry Barth, a member of my church, a talented craftsman and a great character.
He also must have been quite a dad, to hear his children talk about him.
Toward the end of the service, all four of them got up and stood behind the pulpit that he had built for our church.
His oldest daughter, Debbie, was the main spokesperson. She talked about how her earliest memories of her father were of him picking her up at kindergarten, and the inside of his pickup truck smelling of stain, varnish, wood and sawdust. It was a smell that she forever associated with him and his gift to turn wood into something beautiful.
She told about how when she thought of her father, always part of the picture was her mother, Alice. They were a unit, each with their own personalities but devoted to each other and their children, and they had a lot of fun together.
She said Barry took seriously his duty to teach his children three words by which to live: responsibility, dependability and reliability. He evidently said it so often, they will never forget it.
Funerals for parents are often a place where tears are shed. Sometimes they are tears of gratefulness for the unconditional love the parents showed their children. Sometimes they are tears of regret that the relationship wasn’t better.
There is, however, no such thing as perfection in parenting. Sometimes you’re only guessing at what’s the right thing to do or the right thing to say.
You just hope that when it’s your funeral, you will be remembered by your children more for the times you got it right than the times you didn’t.
- Contact Tim Kalich at 662-581-7243 or tkalich@gwcommonwealth.com.
