Daddy love
Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance. ~Ruth E. Renkel
I've been thinking about fathers lately. Back home in San Antonio, a dear friend passed away leaving behind his wife and three daughters. We had been very close to the family. We carpooled together and our children took music classes together. We went to synagogue together and our children attended the same schools. I will always remember him as a quiet, scholarly man with a beautiful soul. Mostly, I remember how sweet and patient he was with his three little girls, how they looked to him for comfort, love, and attention.
My friend was ill for several years, stricken with a brain tumor. His wife had lost her own mother to a similar ailment when she was a young girl, just becoming a woman. For the duration of his several treatments she struggled to come to terms with her own loss and that of her precious daughters. She struggled with God daily, trying to understand the meaning of her pain. In the end she accepted her fate and poured her love and energies into her girls, supported by the generous and caring community that surrounded them.
Her life had never been easy. She lost her mother at a young age, and several years later her father passed away, as well. For years she struggled to have children. She visited doctors and rabbis, prayed fervently, and never gave up hope. Finally, she was blessed with three bright, beautiful, charming daughters. But tragedy was never far, and two weeks ago, she buried her husband. Yet, my dear friend has not lost her faith, nor her capacity to love and accept love. She still smiles and expresses gratitude to her friends who call, come by, bring a meal, take the girls for a few hours. She can still appreciate the blessings she has.
While I am hopeful that my friend will overcome her grief, I worry about three young girls who have to go on without their father.
These thoughts make me think of a different friend who is also raising her daughter without a father. The circumstances are completely different, but her example gives me hope, nonetheless. She is a single mom who bubbles with life, intellectual energy, creativity, and joy. She is a single parent, more or less, by choice, and is giving her beautiful child as much, if not more, than most two-parent homes could muster. She is spending the semester in Israel, teaching at a highly regarded university. Without family or language, she is pressing ahead, finding her way in a new land, a new culture, a new way of life.
By choice or not, moms everywhere raise children without the benefit of a father. Smart, successful, beautiful children emerge from these loving one-parent homes, despite the many struggles.
Two grown friends of ours are mourning the losses of their own fathers, who lived full lives and were blessed to see their children grow into parents, and their grandchildren grow into beautiful young people. What does the loss of an older parent mean to an adult child? My husband lost his father a year before our second child was born. He is still sorely missed by us all.
Fathers hold such a special place in our lives. Traditionally they are the breadwinners, working hard their entire lives to support their families. In some families they are the disciplinarians. I remember the feeling of dread when I was a child, when my mother would throw up her hands and declare, "Just wait till your father gets home!" And as a harried, frustrated mom, I now get it. When you're stuck at home all day with your children, you easily tire of being the enforcer of rules and the judge and jury of all transgressions. It's often easier to leave it to dad.
Dads are often the voice of calm and reason. That certainly is the case in our home. After hours of playing, reading, cooking, and cleaning, and pulling one particular crazed toddler off of walls and out of trouble, I often lose my sense of perspective and humor. It's always a relief when my husband comes home from school with a smile and a fresh attitude. I rely on him to step in and take over when I have reached my parenting threshold.
Daddies offer wisdom and advice. My own father would set aside time almost every night for our beloved "tuck and talk". At bedtime he'd bundle me up under my comforter, sit on the side of my bed and tell me stories, or listen to my own childish narratives. It never failed to calm me and put me to bed feeling happy and loved. I still seek him out for those same virtues: wisdom, love, happiness and comfort.
Daddies come in all shapes, sizes, and stripes. Calming or strict, wise and wonderful. I was floored a few years ago when my mom came home from her best friend's 65th birthday party with a CD of various kid's songs compiled by her musical son, a childhood friend of mine. Most of the songs on the CD were recorded by famous musicians, the Beatles, They Might Be Giants, and others. But the first one remains my children's favorite; a song written and recorded by my childhood friend. A song about his 3 year old daughter and her blanket, "little b".
My friend was ill for several years, stricken with a brain tumor. His wife had lost her own mother to a similar ailment when she was a young girl, just becoming a woman. For the duration of his several treatments she struggled to come to terms with her own loss and that of her precious daughters. She struggled with God daily, trying to understand the meaning of her pain. In the end she accepted her fate and poured her love and energies into her girls, supported by the generous and caring community that surrounded them.
Her life had never been easy. She lost her mother at a young age, and several years later her father passed away, as well. For years she struggled to have children. She visited doctors and rabbis, prayed fervently, and never gave up hope. Finally, she was blessed with three bright, beautiful, charming daughters. But tragedy was never far, and two weeks ago, she buried her husband. Yet, my dear friend has not lost her faith, nor her capacity to love and accept love. She still smiles and expresses gratitude to her friends who call, come by, bring a meal, take the girls for a few hours. She can still appreciate the blessings she has.
While I am hopeful that my friend will overcome her grief, I worry about three young girls who have to go on without their father.
These thoughts make me think of a different friend who is also raising her daughter without a father. The circumstances are completely different, but her example gives me hope, nonetheless. She is a single mom who bubbles with life, intellectual energy, creativity, and joy. She is a single parent, more or less, by choice, and is giving her beautiful child as much, if not more, than most two-parent homes could muster. She is spending the semester in Israel, teaching at a highly regarded university. Without family or language, she is pressing ahead, finding her way in a new land, a new culture, a new way of life.
By choice or not, moms everywhere raise children without the benefit of a father. Smart, successful, beautiful children emerge from these loving one-parent homes, despite the many struggles.
Two grown friends of ours are mourning the losses of their own fathers, who lived full lives and were blessed to see their children grow into parents, and their grandchildren grow into beautiful young people. What does the loss of an older parent mean to an adult child? My husband lost his father a year before our second child was born. He is still sorely missed by us all.
Fathers hold such a special place in our lives. Traditionally they are the breadwinners, working hard their entire lives to support their families. In some families they are the disciplinarians. I remember the feeling of dread when I was a child, when my mother would throw up her hands and declare, "Just wait till your father gets home!" And as a harried, frustrated mom, I now get it. When you're stuck at home all day with your children, you easily tire of being the enforcer of rules and the judge and jury of all transgressions. It's often easier to leave it to dad.
Dads are often the voice of calm and reason. That certainly is the case in our home. After hours of playing, reading, cooking, and cleaning, and pulling one particular crazed toddler off of walls and out of trouble, I often lose my sense of perspective and humor. It's always a relief when my husband comes home from school with a smile and a fresh attitude. I rely on him to step in and take over when I have reached my parenting threshold.
Daddies offer wisdom and advice. My own father would set aside time almost every night for our beloved "tuck and talk". At bedtime he'd bundle me up under my comforter, sit on the side of my bed and tell me stories, or listen to my own childish narratives. It never failed to calm me and put me to bed feeling happy and loved. I still seek him out for those same virtues: wisdom, love, happiness and comfort.
Daddies come in all shapes, sizes, and stripes. Calming or strict, wise and wonderful. I was floored a few years ago when my mom came home from her best friend's 65th birthday party with a CD of various kid's songs compiled by her musical son, a childhood friend of mine. Most of the songs on the CD were recorded by famous musicians, the Beatles, They Might Be Giants, and others. But the first one remains my children's favorite; a song written and recorded by my childhood friend. A song about his 3 year old daughter and her blanket, "little b".
What kind of a daddy is my husband? The perfect daddy: warm and wise, calming yet capable of enforcing discipline when necessary; fair and empathetic; full of wisdom and silly, on occasion. He can't write and record love songs, and no one can sit on the edge of my son's six foot high loft bed for "tuck and talk", but he's there for us, law school or not.
Sharing my friend's losses has given me the opportunity to appreciate the blessings I have right here and right now. And as my heart pours out to my friends who have experienced so much loss, my friends pour confidence and hope in me that whatever bumps in the road we may face, life, love, and hope go on.
May they all find comfort in their loved one's memory.
Sharing my friend's losses has given me the opportunity to appreciate the blessings I have right here and right now. And as my heart pours out to my friends who have experienced so much loss, my friends pour confidence and hope in me that whatever bumps in the road we may face, life, love, and hope go on.
May they all find comfort in their loved one's memory.
posted by law school widow at 10:45 AM
1 Comments:
That's a lovely post, it reminds me of my father and how he was a single parent raising 3 girls for so long. Thanks for the memory, and for a reminder to appreciate what we do have while it's here.
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