Meanwhile there was one discovery of mine, one poet who was a poet indeed, and a Romantic poet, but vastly different from those contemporaries, with whom he had so little to do. I think my love for William Blake had something in it of God's grace. It is a love that has never died, and which has entered very deeply into the development of my life.
Father had always liked Blake, and had tried to explain to me what was good about him when I was a child of ten. The funny thing about Blake is that although the Songs of Innocence look like children's poems, and almost seem to have been written for children, they are, to most children, incomprehensible. Or at least they were so to me. Perhaps if I had read them when I was four or five, it would have been different. But when I was ten, I knew too much. I knew that tigers did not burn in the forests of the night. That was very silly, I thought. Children are very literal minded.
Merton's father tries to instill his love of William Blake in his son. That's what father's do--try to impart some of the knowledge they've acquired of the world into their children. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. For Merton, with Blake, it works.
Sitting in the ER waiting room Friday night, I was able to put some things into perspective. Troubles at work, the death of my uncle, my mother's broken hip and consequent surgery--all of these things (while they still weigh on my mind and heart) became background to the possibility that my son may be seriously ill. And I would have traded places with him in an instant if I could have.
On this Father's Day, I have figured out (for the millionth time in my life) what is really significant and important. My kids--their safety and health. It's so easy to lose sight of land in the currents and storms of daily life. Yes, it's important to try to do your best in everything, every day--for me, it's working, teaching, writing, and friending. Yet, given the choice between being a great father or a great teacher or poet or health care worker or church musician, I don't have to even think about it.
Don't get me wrong. I haven't been a perfect father, by any means. Fathering really isn't about being perfect. It's about the process of perfecting. Every day, when I get up in the morning, I say a little prayer. It goes something like this:
Hi. It's me again. Sorry for fucking up [insert list of mistakes] yesterday. Please grant me the wisdom to say and do the right things today. Watch over my wife and kids. Keep them safe and happy. Help me to be the best person I can be. Thanks.Then, I head out the door and try my damnedest not to fuck up again. And I usually fail. But that's all part of being a good father, too--showing your kids how to deal with life's disappointments and setbacks with integrity and grace. In fact, I would say that's one of the most important lessons I will ever teach my daughter and son. I don't want to be put on a pedestal. I'd rather show them how to be a messed-up human in a messed-up world.
That's what went through my head in the ER as I totaled up all of my past week's discouragements, balanced them against my son's good health. I'm a father who is as far from perfect as possible. Yet, despite the fact that I curse like a Marine, disappoint my friends, overlook and ignore the daily blessings sent my way, God granted me a miracle--my son's Covid-19 test came back negative.
And for that, this Father's Day, Saint Marty gives thanks.
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