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Father's Day Service
A Sermon Given
by Rev. Roberta Nelson
June 21, 1998
at Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church
Bethesda, Maryland
Call to Worship
My father was a
true father -- he loved me.
And because he loved me,
I loved him: first,
as a child, with the love
which is worship;
then, as a youth, with the
the love that give battle;
last, as a man, with the love
which understands.
e e cummings
Reflections
I've become my father!! Well, not exactly. I don't know how my
father felt as a father, since I was too busy being the youngest of three boys.
Children can't help but be self centered, in a good way. They are too busy
drinking up life to be focused on how their parents feel, or what their
parents might want to do. As a child, if life wasn't about me for a
particular moment, then is was about one of my brothers, but certainly not
about my parents!
I've become A father. AND not just a father with one child, which
at least from my perspective has a novelty to it. No. I have two children
(girls) ages 1 and nine months. And no, two kids is not twice the work
of one. That would imply that there is a comparison to be made. No,
having two children is nothing like having one. With one child, my wife
and I had a number options for coverage. (Think basketball.) We could do
two on one for the real intense stuff (like nasty tasting medicine), or for
parent bonding purposes (like bathy baths and playtime). We would do a
zone defense, with one of us manning the kitchen to cook while the other
piddled around the house (both watching the child as it moved between our
areas of coverage.) Or we could do situations substitutions. My wife has
a better touch in the bath, but I can hold a child longer in my arms while
doing the parental get-the-baby-to-sleep waltz. AND, when the child
finally went to sleep, ahh! The pure joy of pretending we were still
footloose and fancy free. We still had time to ourselves to recharge for the
next day.
NOT ANY MORE! Two kids requires a new kind of coverage
scheme: man to man coverage. Or worst case, two on one while the other
child temporarily left, alone, ultimately screams at the injustice of it all
until you adjust back to man to man coverage. During the day, while I am
realizing at work, my wife must play what I call "desperation zone
defense." This defense is what you see in basketball games when the poor
player who happened to get back on defense during an opposing team's fast
break is rewarded with the job of covering both Michael Jordan and Scottie
Pippin as they converge on the basket thinking up new ways to make the 11
p.m. highlight film. As my wife once heard, if everyone is still alive at the
end of the day, declare a victory and go to bed . . . quickly before the kids
wake up.
Keith Levchenko
*** *** ***
My Dear Daughter,
So many weeks have passed since I saw you that by now you are
able to read this without your mother looking over your shoulder and
helping you with the big words. I have six sets of pictures of you. Every
day I take them down and change them. Those your dear mother put in
glass frames I do not change. Also, I have all the sweet fruits and
chocolates and red bananas. How good of you to think of just the things
your father likes. Some of them I gave to a little boy and girl. I play with
them because soon my daughter will be as big. They have no mother like
you, of course, they have no mother like yours -- for except my mother
there never was a mother like yours; so loving, so tender, so unselfish and
thoughtful. If she is reading this, kiss her for me. Every day I watch the
sun set, and know that you and your pretty mother are watching it too. And
all day I think of you both.
Be very good. Do not bump yourself. Do not eat matches. Do not
play with scissors or cats. Do not forget your dad. Sleep when your mother
wishes it. Love us both. Try to know how we love you. That you will
never learn.
Good-night and God keep you, and bless you, your Dad.
Richard Harding-Davis
to his nine-month-old daughter
Reflections
A few weeks ago, Bobbie told me that my father would be speaking
at the Father's Day Service and asked if I would be comfortable saying a
few worlds of my own. Any of you who know me are aware that I am very
comfortable speaking under any circumstances, sometimes without any
discernible point or purpose. I'm told it's hereditary.
Anyway I accepted, and I figured I would easily be able to compose
the few words with which I had been charged in the several weeks before
the service. Yesterday, I decided I should probably get started. I went out
onto the porch with a pen, a few sheets of paper, and a dearth of inspiration.
I sat in contemplation, I paced, I stared at the wall. I had no idea of what
to say. So I did something I have done in this worst of situations all my
life. I went to see what dad had written. Dad was in his studio, at the
computer. He had been typing up thoughts, facts and ideas in order to coax
inspiration out of its lair. He was, it appeared, nearly exactly where I was
in the process -- approximately nowhere. "I have no ideas what to write,"
I told him. "How did we get ourselves into this?" he asked me.
This is a question which my father and I have asked each other
many times during my lifetime. On fishing trips on uncooperative rivers,
at parties and functions which neither one of us particularly wants to attend,
in traffic jams, before performances. In many ways it is the ultimate
question of my life. It is a question that we ask when we feel pushed
beyond our limits, into the great unknown. That, I'm told, is what
fatherhood is all about. How did my dad get himself into this? If you don't
know the answer, there's a Sunday school class you can take to find out.
But in any case, I'm glad he did.
Alec Patton
*** *** ***
"How did we get ourselves into this?" How indeed. Considering
all the financial uncertainties facing a school teacher and a free-lance
composer in the late 70s, it was hard for us to find the courage and self-confidence to decide to start a
family. As I recall, there were three things
that contributed to our decision to take the plunge.
First, in 1979 I got a full-time job as a composer-in-residence and
music director of the Round House Theatre. Despite unspecified hours and
all-too-specific salary, it was a real job and it gave us a little more security.
Late that fall, a cousin of Viv's asked us to take care of her eight year old
daughter Miro for a weekend, and we got a taste of what we had been
missing. She was a delightful house guest, and I'm not sure who was more
desolate when she left us: me, my wife, or our dog, Oso. I remember
watching Oso as he stared mournfully out the window and saying "Viv, we
need a kid of our dog!" That winter had the remarkable experience of
having playwright, William Gibson spend ten days at our house while the
Round House produced the premiere of one of his plays. We had several
long, soul searching conversations with him. When he left, his final
comments to us were that we must waste no more time and get started on
a family now. We took his comments to heart, and within a few months,
Viv was pregnant with our first child. A few weeks after we learned that
Viv was pregnant, I was informed that the Round House Theatre could no
longer fund the position of music director. So much for careful planning.
We were very nervous about this new person we were bringing into
the world, and we tried hard to do everything right. We read, we talked, we
took classes, we suffered large quantities of angst. The best advice we got
was from a close friend of mine who had stunned us all by marrying his
high school sweetheart and starting a family while we were still in college.
He had remained a close friend through his early divorce, and we had
watched with awe and delight as he raised his two children by himself. His
kids were and are wonderful; he is now a grandfather, and he will always
be to me the quintessential dad. He noticed our anxiety, and I will never
forget his words of advice: "Relax," he said. "You will be great parents.
Having kids is the most fun you will every have in your entire life." If he
could say that, after he had been through, I figured it must the truth.
It is the truth. I would never try to give the impression that
fatherhood is easy, but it sure is fun.
Like so many thing that at first appear to be disasters, losing my job
at the Round House turned out to be a blessing. It meant that when Viv
went back to work, I was able to arrange my schedule so that I took over
most of the child care. That was when I learned that Sesame Street recycles
way too much of their material. I also learned that the bonding that takes
place during "quality time" is qualitatively different from the kind of
powerful and lasting bond that is forged by dealing with hard stuff together,
like the diapers that didn't really get the job done and the naps that refused
to take place as scheduled. The financial pressure of trying to run my own
business were balanced by a deep steak of irresponsibility that enabled me
to occasionally drop everything, grab Alec and head off on an adventure.
I remember one sunny day in April when I decided to chuck everything and
take Alec on a trip to the beach. He had recently turned three at the time.
We drove to Sandy Point, and we were the only ones there. The sun was
warm, the wind was brisk, and we both yelled and laughed as the icy water
swirled over out bare feet. We found a threadbare but still inflated football
in a trash can and practiced hand offs and very short pass plays on the
beach. We kept that ball for years. We called it "the football the beach
gave us." On the way home we stopped for crab cake sandwiches at a
restaurant that had a "treasure chest" full of cheap plastic toys. Alec was
told he could pick any toy he wanted. He was almost paralyzed by the
possibilities. Joy and excitement and worry all battled across his face as he
squatted by the chest and stared at the mass of gleaming, brightly-colored
cellophane bags. Finally, he chose a large pink plastic crab. But the prize
possession that we came home with that day was not the crab. It was not
even the football the beach gave us. It was the tiny red plastic cutlass that
the bartender had used to skewer the cherry in Alec's Shirley Temple.
Within a day or two, the cutlass had either broken or disappeared entirely,
I forget which. Alec was inconsolable. On my way somewhere, I ducked
into a party supply store to see if I could find a replacement. The store
clerk was adamant that he could only sell them to me by the thousand. I
told him I didn't need a thousand, I only needed one, and I told him why.
"Hold on," he said. When he reemerged from the back of the store he
pressed a small bundle of cutlasses into my hand. He refused to accept
payment. All he said was, "I understand -- I'm a dad, too."
That summer, we enrolled Alec in preschool Viv was pregnant now
with someone who would turn out to be the one-and-only Andrew Edgerton
Patton. We were, of course, anxious about the pregnancy, anxious about
Alec's feelings about his new brother, and anxious about Alec's first
introduction to school. His teacher came to visit, but turned down our offer
of coffee and conversation, and instead sat down happily with Alec and
played with him for an hour. It was the beginning of a healthy and
humbling redefinition of who I was. Now, I was "Alec's Dad."
When I dropped Alec off for his first day of preschool, I knew it
was an important and exciting day for our family. I pulled into the parking
lot and drove to the preschool entrance, under friendly, sheltering trees at
the back of the building. I lifted Alec out of his car seat, and his skinny
arms tightened around my neck in a quick hug. His teacher was standing
on the path, waiting for him. I put him down and told him to have fun.
When he took his teacher's proffered hand, his little red and green striped
shirt pulled up on one side so that, as he turned his back on me and walked
down the shady path into the school, I could see the elastic-band of his red
shorts and a little stripe of skin on his back. He didn't look back.
Chris Patton
Remembrance
I cannot remember having ever heard a single sentence uttered by
my mother in the nature of moral or religious instruction. Father made an
effort or two. When he caught me imitating him by pretending to smoke a
toy pipe he advised me very earnestly never to follow his example in any
way; and his sincerity so impressed me that to this day I have never
smoked, never shaved, and never used alcohol stimulants. He taught me to
regard him as an unsuccessful man with many undesirable habits, as a
warning and not as a model. In fact, he did himself some injustice lest I
should grow up like him; and I now see that this anxiety on his part was
admirable and lovable; and that he was really just what he so carefully
strove not to be: that is, a model father.
George Bernard Shaw
Reflections
Two years ago on Father's Day, I wrote that "I was startled to
discover how few books there were about fathers," and that the number of
articles about mothers far out-weighed those written about fathers. Two
years later there has been a slight shift and fathers are finally getting some
important recognition. In their recent book (of great importance) The War
Against Parents, Sylvia Hewlett and Cornel West devote a significance
chapter plus numerous additional pages to fathers.
Yesterday in the New York Times, there was an article by Sarah
Boxer with quotes of some of this century's "wisdom" about fathers and the
advice given to them:
From the Child Study Association, 1910, "It was conceded that as
a rule, fathers play no part in the life of a child." In 1950, Dr. Benjamin
Spock wrote "You can be a warm father and a real man at the same time."
From the Uses of Enchantment, Bruno Bettleheim wrote, "In the
usual course of family life, the father is often out of the house . . . as a
result, a boy can easily pretend the father is not all that important in his
life."
Some more recent writings urge men . . . "to lead, to take back their
role, all be it lovingly and gently and graciously, but lead," . . . "to stop
denying their importance, or in various humourous and embarrassing ways
try to make fun of a father's importance in the lives of their children."
The stories we have heard this morning do no resonate with my own
experience or with the media images of fathers.
Dorothy Stauber writes "My father is still alive, although in far
different condition then he would like. This poem speaks to some of his
special love and parenting . . . The talks and discussions he and I had during
my childhood and later years have served me well."
I had A father who talked with me
Allowed me the right to disagree,
To questions -- and always answered me,
As well as he could . . . and truthfully.
He talked of adventure; horrors of war;
Of life, its meaning; what love was for;
How each would always need to strive
To improve the world to keep it alive.
Stressed the duty we owe one another
To be aware each man is a brother.
Words and laughter he also spoke
A silly song or a happy joke.
Time runs along, some say I'm wise
That I look at life with seeing eyes.
My heart is happy, my mind is free,
I had a father who talked with me.
Hilda Bigelow,
Cocao, Florida
Our memories of our fathers will evoke a wide range of feelings
and emotions.
"Dad introduces us to sports, puts the fielder's mitt in the crib. His
broad back is our trampoline, his arms and legs our first jungle
gym; he catches us when we fall. He holds us in shallow water and
there is trust. He teaches us how to hit, catch and throw and
doesn't complain the first time we hit a line drive through the
basement window."
Dan Shaughnessy
Ann Sexton writes "It doesn't matter who my father was, it matters
who I remember he was."
Jay Schneider could not be here this morning so he sent this remembrance:
My grandfather died when my father was eight, the oldest of four
boys. Obviously life was very difficult for him and his family, and I always
felt bad that he grew up without really knowing his father. In the day
before any social welfare programs his mother had to work very hard to
support her family, but three of her four sons went to college and graduate
school. My father's childhood taught him certain things were a given --
you had to work hard to succeed, you took care of your family, first,
education was of utmost importance, and you had to be responsible at all
times. Graduating from college at the beginning of the recession only
strengthened his determination and stoicism.
Like most men of his time, my father was not a talker and almost
never showed his emotions. My two brothers and I were encouraged to
buck up when things got tough and to not get emotional, or to quote him,
"not act like girls." But he was always there for us, and we knew he put the
needs of his family before his own. Even when he was in failing health, he
was more concerned about my mother than himself. We were expected to
emulate his concept of what a man should be and do, and by and large we
have tried.
While he had a strong sense of what was right and what was wrong,
he was not by nature an authoritarian. He did not tell us what to do, or even
try to influence our major life decisions -- where to go to college, what to
major it, what jobs to take, who to marry, where to live, and the life. He
accepted us as adults, if we acted like adults. As you might imagine,
because of this we rarely discussed these decisions with my father. These
were mother issues, and my father did not get involved unless we needed
help.
So I find it strange, although probably not unusual, that I have
always felt, and still feel, a stronger emotional attachment to my father than
to my mother. He has been dead for eight years, and I still wonder what he
would think about things I say and do. I am often sorry that he died with
so many loving thoughts between us that went unspoken, but I know that
they would probably continue to be unspoken if he were still alive today.
It's not easy to change the habits of a lifetime.
If I were to survey you this morning, there would not be one
consistent voice about fathers. Perhaps you would speak of how you
learned to trust the world, or gained courage and honesty because he held
before you values of integrity; perhaps you would be grateful for his love
and support in times of crises; maybe you are grateful that he was an
enduring presence or that he was absent because of the turmoil he inflicted,
perhaps you gained persistence to follow the call of your inner voice
because of your father's shared interest and respect.
Cinnamon Daniel writes:
My dad has always known how to make me feel special and
appreciated. As a little girl I loved music and took piano and theory lessons
which I thoroughly enjoyed. But what I liked the most was when my dad
would take me to the symphony at the Kennedy Center. We would dress
up and go togther, just the two of us. Afterwards Dad would take me to a
fancy restaurant across the street where I would get Earl Grey tea and a
napoleon. I felt grown up and important on those nights. More important,
I felt that my Dad respected my interest and aptitude for music.
Over the years we have continued to attend many concerts together from
opera to jazz to rock. Every holiday possible we exchange CDs of new
music we have discovered and think the other will like. Recently, we have
become hooked on Cuban music. Music has become a language that we
use to show our love and respect for one another.
Here in this community we have an opportunity to watch the
changes taking place as fatherhood takes on new meaning and success. We
have an opportunity to nurture and support fathers who make conscious
choices about values, ethics, and priorities, who strive to act congruently
with conviction and determination. We can learn to speak with affirmation
and care about the new models of fathering that are being born amidst
painful and difficult odds. Who do you know who is trying to navigate
these waters of constant change and how can you hold out a welcoming
embrace?
May we appreciate
the firm and enduring witness of the world's fathers
who in their restless aspiration
loyally gave of themselves to their children
and brought all of us closer to a world of love and justice.
Amen
Remembrances
When I was made presidential press secretary my father sent me a telegram:
"Always tell the truth; if you can't always tell the truth, don't lie."
Bill Moyers
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