So, yeah, Father’s Day. My dad is in Arizona on a trip that has some meaning for him I can’t quite understand. He is, I think, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he can’t save his grand kids and my brother won’t.
Whatever salvation in this case would look like.
The church down the street from me has a sign that says “Happy Father’s Day. God made man in his own image.” Every time I drive by that sign, I want to go into that church and put my finger right into the chest of that minister and say “That’s a lie that hurts you.” Unless we assume that God was staring in His reflection in a puddle of water and reached through said reflection in order to grab the mud that made Adam. If men are just mud that has been shaped in water bearing the reflection of God, I can kind of accept that as an accurate belief.
That’s not what they mean, of course.
They mean something like that fathers are the tiny demi-gods of the house and should be treated as such.
The rare moments when my dad is just a man are when I like him best.
And I feel like fighting with him, when we both so aware that he’s living in time his father and brothers never had, seems so pointless.
I don’t want my last words with my dad to be angry.
I’m not happy with him, but I’m not going to fight with him, either.
I have no faith in his god and no love for the idea that my dad is a miniature version of him.
But I count on the power of the words of my god, to bring him safely back. Someday his luck will run out. There is no escaping that.
Just give us as much time as we can get.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.