Three years ago everything hit the fan.
My father passed away suddenly on his 70th birthday. It was an indescribable seismic shift in the bedrock of my life, one that still comes with jarring daily aftershocks.
On the very same weekend I was scheduled for my first interview with a new church a few hours away from our home. That too, would later bring terrible tremors for our family.
Over the following months, the four of us were pinballed back and forth through a constant, dizzying barrage of tears, funerals, difficult goodbyes, grieving, packing, and moving.
In many ways, we’re still careening from it all.
It was as if so much of what we’d planted our feet upon on, the stuff that made up the solid ground of life had been comprised; our routine, our relationships, our finances— everything was altered and… liquified. Nothing felt sturdy enough to support the weight of the newness and the sadness.
Yes, we had our faith but to be honest, the more we stepped out in that faith the less stable everything seemed to become—and the more we sank.
I felt the sinking within, too.
There were far too many days when the heaviness and the instability were almost overwhelming, when the grief was nearly too much; that is until I walked in the door.
When you’re a child, you look-up to and look-up at your parents. They’re towering, steady monoliths of wisdom and security. They’re superheroes you get to live with.
You know they have the perfect answers to every question, the perfect plan for every situation, the perfect kiss for every boo-boo. You lean on them and run to them and rest in them because you know they will save you.
What you learn later as an adult, is that they’re essentially older, taller, more experienced versions of you; flawed, scared, stupid, hurting, questioning kids—trying to figure out how to navigate the storms as they come.
Many times when I’ve seen my kids over the past three years, it’s been as if my mind instantly reset itself; recalibrating life, helping me see what’s real and good and important, helping me see who I really am.
To them, I’m still “DADDY”; still strong and silly and safe, still their personal Superhero. Despite the bad guys and the burning buildings, I can still manage to save the day.
It’s not that I’ve had to pretend around them or to hide the hurt, but in their fully-invested, completely trusting, open-hearted love I feel most secure, most like myself. When everything around me was unstable, and when everything within me felt uneasy, when I sank too far into despair; they rescued me.
The hugs and the laughter, the throw-and-catch afternoons, the morning cuddles and the nighttime kisses all remind me of who I am—because they showed me how I’m seen through their eyes. They made it impossible to be without hope.
Moms and Dads out there, maybe you know what I mean.
If you have children, more than anything in the world you want to be their hero; to protect them from harm, to shield them from sadness, and you do your best to be and do and give everything to make that happen.
Often through, you come to realize with tremendous gratitude and with great humility, just how powerful the love they have for you really is; that in a very real and beautiful way—they have saved you.
I live among pint-sized superheroes.
