Father's Day
Father’s Day is just another day for me. I don’t think I’m alone in this feeling. All the fuss and to-do feels like too much. Don’t get me wrong, I like getting presents. Everyone does, and if they say they don’t, they’re lying. And I will die on that hill.
This feeling, for me, stems from a deeper place. I never liked the fuss that was made when I was out with my kids by myself. It always struck me as wrong to receive praise from a random older lady in the grocery store. “Giving mom a break? You’re such a good dad!”
I didn’t always feel this strongly. But since Oliver was born with all his struggles and I crashed into the world of disability, that praise gets even stronger. People act like I am doing something extraordinary for showing up. But I’m just doing my job as a father, and some days, the literal bare minimum. I understand some of it is generational, cultural, or whatever else. However, doctors, nurses, and teachers say it too. It just doesn’t sit right with me.
Being a father to my three children is the most rewarding experience I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Every high and every low have been worth it. I’ve learned more about myself than I ever wanted to know. Fatherhood has shown me exactly who I am and who I want to be.
I won’t lie and say that I am the best father. I make mistakes, and I will own those mistakes until the day I go home and meet my Maker. However, it is through those mistakes that I learned the hardest lessons.
One of the hardest and most fulfilling lessons is that, despite how you feel, you are still your kids’ biggest hero. In some of my lowest moments, my kids still loved me, still wanted me, and still praised me. I didn’t deserve it. I was failing. They didn’t care. Because I was still their dad, and I was trying. That’s all they saw, and that’s all that mattered to them.
At some point in the great game of fatherhood, we are all going to fail. I have, and will again. What matters is showing up, being there, being present, and trying. That is ninety percent of it. We can figure out the rest as we go. If we can do that, we are already winning. That is the hardest part.
Now, I am not a smart man, but I have learned a few things over the years. And I believe this all boils down to a simple biblical principle: fathers, love your children, and children, love your fathers. A pretty smart guy named Malachi sums it up for us:
“He will turn the hearts of the fathers to their children, and the hearts of the children to their fathers…” (Malachi 4:6)
Dads, you might feel you’re failing. It’s going to get hard. Some days you’ll feel you’re barely keeping your head above water. But I promise you, you are doing great. You’re still your kids’ hero.
Every kid has their own way of showing it, and if you’re moving too fast, you might miss it. But I promise you, it’s there. Whether your kids are neurodivergent or neurotypical, if you slow down long enough, you’ll see it.
In our family, it’s the way Oliver pulls my wife’s forehead to his like it’s a secret handshake only they share. I see it in the way he wraps his arms around my head and pulls me close to his stomach and just holds me there. It may not look like what the world calls “normal,” but it’s his way. It’s real. It’s love.
That is Father’s Day for me: remembering that in all the ways I feel like I’ve fallen short throughout the year, my kids still love me, and I love them. And somehow, that’s enough.
Author: Kenny Reynolds