Parenting Forecast

Pretty Imperfect with Good Intentions

Photo by Daiga Ellaby on Unsplash

Because I’m writing this post right after Father’s Day, in no way am I insinuating my husband wasn’t an exceptional father. He was an excellent father. He came home every night if he wasn’t traveling for business and ate dinner as a family with us, spent the evenings with his sons leading their Scout troop, coaching or supporting their sports, reading out loud to the little ones, praying with them, limiting his own hobbies and interests so he could be with them, and so much more. But I’ve been inundated over the past few days with podcasts and social media posts about fatherhood and tributes to dads—along with hearing grief from those who were deprived of loving, available fathers—and wanted to share some thoughts on parenting.

Whenever we celebrate Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, my husband and I slip into our own parenting memories of raising our four sons, despite those years being far in our rearview mirror. (Today, we focus on grandparenting. We are much more attentive grandparents than we were as parents; just sayin’.) When we were raising our sons, everything in our being wanted to be the best, most present parent for our boys, but alas, despite good intentions, we failed at times. I’m the kind of mother who apologizes constantly to my sons for the times I lost my temper, failed them, or grew impatient when they were young. Finally, a few years ago, one of them said, “Stop it, Mom. You’re not remembering.” So now I’ve silenced those apologies, instead showering my sons with words and displays of love, letting them know we are so proud of them. But in my memory, I harbor this phantom vision of the type of parent I had wanted to be and failed.

While my sons accepted my apologies over the years, I still believe it was important for them to know my intentions, what I dreamed of offering them in the parenting department, while acknowledging an awareness of the gap between goals and actions. I believe hearing those intentions created a kind of covering grace over any harbored hurts or disappointments.

My own parents struggled with many issues, their marriage eventually dissolving. While we had good moments, we also had very unstable moments. I’ll spare you the details. At the end of my father’s life, after losing one too many jobs, our home in a lovely coastal town, and his marriage to my mother, my father became homeless. He stayed with distant relatives and even in his car for many years. Honestly, my siblings and I don’t know all the details of how he survived during those many years, but at the end of his life, my sister kindly invited him to live with her family in Florida where he eventually died of a heart attack.

When we all drove down for the funeral, I felt drawn to his room where my brothers and I sifted through his belongings and papers. I hadn’t been in one of his rooms in decades. One piece of paper stood out to me, and I kept it: a list of intentions he held toward his children and grandchildren. He wanted us to love and respect him again. (We had never stopped.) He wanted to help us financially. He wanted to know our kids. Many of the items on the list never came to pass, but I kept that list and called it “my inheritance.” I had finally learned my father’s deepest intentions after experiencing his confusing messages over the years when he vanished from our lives. He may not have been able to fulfill his intentions, but knowing his desires offered me understanding and healing.

Our kids often don’t know our histories and how our own broken parents’ job raising us formed (or deformed) us in the parenting department. As much as I put energy and time into learning to parent, it was going to take more time than they would be in our home to get it right. Thank goodness for their mercy toward me.

Recently while visiting a state prison where we do ministry with our church, I gave a word of encouragement to the men about addressing God as “Abba Father” just as Jesus prayed. Most of us likely pray to the Lord or God Almighty, but after hearing a teaching on the topic, I decided to address him as my Abba Father, a term of endearment meaning “Dad” or “Daddy.” Something shifted within me during that prayer time. My protective shell diminished as did a distance between me and God. I saw Him differently, and the knowledge that God is the perfect and Holy Father while also being the “dad” my own father wanted to be, brought a tenderness and a different way of envisioning Him.

I’ve shared this experience in a couple of different prisons now, completely aware I’m talking to a room full of men with great father wounds. Both times after the service, men came up to say how much they understood those meaningful words. It’s a beautiful reminder to any of us with father wounds to know we are not alone or abandoned. We are more loved than we can possibly comprehend. Healing is possible, although its fruits may arrive slowly.

For those of us who are parents, sharing our parenting intentions with our kids may be one way to break generational wounding. I encourage readers to give it a try.

Happy Belated Father’s Day.

For anyone interested, I’ve written two novels, both dealing with imperfect parents.