an Abstract Title for a Specific Blog
Among all the metaphors that Christian's use to describe God, "Father" is probably the most ubiquitous. "Shepherd" may be right up there, though. Because it's so common, churches spend a lot of time explaining that metaphor, and what it means to be a father. It's no wonder, then, that almost every sermon on the topic includes a clause that sounds something like this: "Now, you may not have had the best father in the world. Maybe yours was physically or verbally abusive; maybe he was just absent in your life. Because of this, God the Father may seem like less-than-desirable idea for you. But your heavenly father is different..."
If I had a nickel for every time I heard that, I'd have at least a dollar. And every time I hear it, my mind disengages and I wait for the next relevant portion of the sermon.
Let me repeat that, just in case you were skimming. My mind disengages and I wait for the next relevant portion of the sermon. That's right: I had a good father. Oh, he wasn't perfect--my mother can attest to that--but he was loving, involved, and wise. He obviously cared about the family deeply and wanted us children (to date, there are six) to succeed. And to add on to that: he adopted all five of my sisters, which means that in addition to being the only boy growing up, I was also the only child of my parents by blood. And that meant that, rational or not, I was never at a loss for finding reasons that I was special. Oh yeah. AND I was the baby of the family for the first eight years of my life. Did I miss anything?
In short, I completely lucked out. I didn't grow up in a broken home, and although my parents never pretended not to have problems, they knew enough to keep it between themselves and to take the proper steps to solve those problems (my Dad is a marriage counselor, and one of the few smart enough to realize that those ideas you learn in college can actually be applied to your own life, not just the ones that are paying you to fix theirs). My parents both loved me and I never (seriously) doubted it. I was never abused.
But let's not stop there. I also grow up in a middle-class home with enough money to provide all my needs plus a little extra for fun. I grew up in a medium-sized town surrounded by rich people. The city had money, and so it was a nice town. Traverse City, Michigan, my friends. Small-town personality with big-city opportunities. Its nightlife can only be described as regrettable, but by and large it would be difficult to pick a better place to grow up. Scholastic, extracurricular, and musical activities abounded. There were plenty of jobs available to my age group. The high school I went to is one of the best in the state.
And, of course, I was born American. I'm in Haiti for a few months, and being an American was more of an advantage than I ever realized. It's not just having money and opportunities; it's also growing up around people who have succeeded. Being in that environment taught me a lot of basic skills about succeeding in life--things that are second-nature to me now, but that some other parts of the world simply haven't learned.
Plus, I have a few advantages stuck in my brain. I have as many problems as anybody else, but I'm a writer in a scholastic world that has just begun to embrace writing as its primary means of assessment. Everybody has talents, but I have the right talents--the ones that are in vogue. Lucked out again!
I picked a book off a shelf today about people who are struggling with various aspects of their lives because of a bad childhood. I have some misgivings about my own childhood, so I thought I'd browse through it. See if there was something to learn. But after skimming a couple hundred pages about people in every awful type of situation possible to imagine, I started thinking that maybe I have better problems to took at than family life. Maybe I can start working on pride, or intolerance. But it's hard to accept that maybe God just spared me... because, I mean... why me?
I feel a little guilty to have so much going for me. A little responsible to make the best of my opportunities. A little grateful to my family for starting me out right. And a little honored to have God as my father--and to know a little about what that means.
Dan