The thing to remember about fathers is;
they're men.
A girl has to keep it in mind:
They are dragon seekers,
bent on improbable rescues.
Scratch any father,
you find someone chock full of qualms
and romantic terrors;
Believing change is a threat
like your first shoes with heels on,
like your first bicycle
it took such months to get. 2
they're men.
A girl has to keep it in mind:
They are dragon seekers,
bent on improbable rescues.
Scratch any father,
you find someone chock full of qualms
and romantic terrors;
Believing change is a threat
like your first shoes with heels on,
like your first bicycle
it took such months to get. 2
And you will ask me,
at some time in the future,
i f you really did teach me these things,
because underneath all the loving and giving
is a humility that makes you surprised
when people compliment you.
It's probably just as well you didn't realize
how great you are, Dad.
You'd be intolerable if you knew!
I love you.
Stephani 1
at some time in the future,
i f you really did teach me these things,
because underneath all the loving and giving
is a humility that makes you surprised
when people compliment you.
It's probably just as well you didn't realize
how great you are, Dad.
You'd be intolerable if you knew!
I love you.
Stephani 1
________________________________
Acknowledgements:
[1] -Special Praise for a Dear Dad ~Stephani Keer
The above is from the Calgary Sun
on Sunday June 16, 1985 - Father's Day
(the footnote reads:
Stephani Keer's column appears on Page 11).
[2] ~Phyllis McGinley
[3] ~Jim Valvano
[4] ~Author Unknown
[5] ~Klaas T
[6] ~Harmon Killebrew
[7] ~Friedrich Nietzsche
[8] ~Frederick Buechner, 'Whistling in the Dark'
PS: If you are a wounded adult (or were wounded)
check the main Dawn Cove Abbey site for information and
resources to assist your healing journey (see link below).
Media: You Gave Me A Mountain
This snippet is based on a contribution by Carolyn Richards
Acknowledgements:
[1] -Special Praise for a Dear Dad ~Stephani Keer
The above is from the Calgary Sun
on Sunday June 16, 1985 - Father's Day
(the footnote reads:
Stephani Keer's column appears on Page 11).
[2] ~Phyllis McGinley
[3] ~Jim Valvano
[4] ~Author Unknown
[5] ~Klaas T
[6] ~Harmon Killebrew
[7] ~Friedrich Nietzsche
[8] ~Frederick Buechner, 'Whistling in the Dark'
PS: If you are a wounded adult (or were wounded)
check the main Dawn Cove Abbey site for information and
resources to assist your healing journey (see link below).
Media: You Gave Me A Mountain
This snippet is based on a contribution by Carolyn Richards
| That love taught me to love; the acceptance of me as I am; showed me how to accept others. Your pride in me taught me self-respect. Your honest tears taught me that emotions are okay. Your laughter taught me fun. Your faith opened the door to believe for me. Your silent patriotism – you never did show me your medals, you know. I had to find them for myself – developed in me the love I have for this country. |
My father gave me the greatest gift
anyone could give another person,
he believed in me. 3
One night a father overheard his daughter pray:
“Dear God, Make me the kind of person my Daddy is”.
Later that night, the Father prayed,
"Dear God, make me the kind of man my daughter wants me to be." 4
These men are so far removed from those
other “men” – the total losers:
cold, uncaring - loving only themselves -
many lie and cheat - completely selfish and irresponsible;
who abandon the women and children and in their lives -
physically, financially, spiritually and emotionally.
Frequently, they are bullies, controlling and abusive.
A woman has a choice in the kind of man she connects with;
a child does not: a child cannot choose its father (or parents).
These men are only roaming sperm disseminators –
as far removed from fatherhood as rainbows from a desert.
A child would never choose that kind of progenitor.
It is a sad, baffling mystery why anyone would chose a loser:
that such losers make child-victims with them is a tragedy.
Fortunately, as we’ve seen, not all “men” are alike;
there are multitudes of good ones, too.
Yes, they are not perfect - these too, make mistakes, no doubt about it.
But good men have integrity and honour;
they respect themselves, and show respect to others.
They own their behaviours and words,
and accept responsibility for both –
are not afraid to say “I was wrong, I’m sorry”,
when they have caused hurt or anguish.
They are caring, kind, loving, and sensitive.
They love their children, and over the years they work
at becoming better dads and more loving men and fathers –
they will admit their failures and strive to learn from them.
The losers aren’t even in the same league.
That anyone can confuse the two is the biggest mystery of all.
Perhaps in this sick world, only wounded adults with
dysfunctional histories can make that mistake.
In this culture of dysfunction, we who try,
need all the support we can get –
those who project the losers’ qualities on us
only perpetuate and escalate
the confusion and sickness all around us.
Just using the same word “men” to both types - is an insult;
the losers at best, are “wannabees” who can’t cut it -
in reality, they are not even a poor reflection. 5
My father used to play with my brother and me in the yard.
Mother would come out and say,
"You're tearing up the grass."
"We're not raising grass,"
Dad would reply.
"We're raising boys." 6
It is much easier to become a father than to be one,
for any man can be a father,
but it takes a special person to be a dad.
When one has not had a good father,
one must create one. 7
When a child is born, a father is born.
A mother is born, too of course,
but at least for her it's a gradual process.
Body and soul, she has nine months
to get used to what's happening.
She becomes what's happening.
But for even the best-prepared father,
it happens all at once.
On the other side of a plate-glass window,
a nurse is holding up something
roughly the size of a loaf of bread
for him to see for the first time. 5
God bless Stephani’s dad – may he represent the majority –
we’re still out here.
And bless her for giving him recognition.
Score one for the good guys!
Don't make a baby if you can't be a father.
anyone could give another person,
he believed in me. 3
One night a father overheard his daughter pray:
“Dear God, Make me the kind of person my Daddy is”.
Later that night, the Father prayed,
"Dear God, make me the kind of man my daughter wants me to be." 4
These men are so far removed from those
other “men” – the total losers:
cold, uncaring - loving only themselves -
many lie and cheat - completely selfish and irresponsible;
who abandon the women and children and in their lives -
physically, financially, spiritually and emotionally.
Frequently, they are bullies, controlling and abusive.
A woman has a choice in the kind of man she connects with;
a child does not: a child cannot choose its father (or parents).
These men are only roaming sperm disseminators –
as far removed from fatherhood as rainbows from a desert.
A child would never choose that kind of progenitor.
It is a sad, baffling mystery why anyone would chose a loser:
that such losers make child-victims with them is a tragedy.
Fortunately, as we’ve seen, not all “men” are alike;
there are multitudes of good ones, too.
Yes, they are not perfect - these too, make mistakes, no doubt about it.
But good men have integrity and honour;
they respect themselves, and show respect to others.
They own their behaviours and words,
and accept responsibility for both –
are not afraid to say “I was wrong, I’m sorry”,
when they have caused hurt or anguish.
They are caring, kind, loving, and sensitive.
They love their children, and over the years they work
at becoming better dads and more loving men and fathers –
they will admit their failures and strive to learn from them.
The losers aren’t even in the same league.
That anyone can confuse the two is the biggest mystery of all.
Perhaps in this sick world, only wounded adults with
dysfunctional histories can make that mistake.
In this culture of dysfunction, we who try,
need all the support we can get –
those who project the losers’ qualities on us
only perpetuate and escalate
the confusion and sickness all around us.
Just using the same word “men” to both types - is an insult;
the losers at best, are “wannabees” who can’t cut it -
in reality, they are not even a poor reflection. 5
My father used to play with my brother and me in the yard.
Mother would come out and say,
"You're tearing up the grass."
"We're not raising grass,"
Dad would reply.
"We're raising boys." 6
It is much easier to become a father than to be one,
for any man can be a father,
but it takes a special person to be a dad.
When one has not had a good father,
one must create one. 7
When a child is born, a father is born.
A mother is born, too of course,
but at least for her it's a gradual process.
Body and soul, she has nine months
to get used to what's happening.
She becomes what's happening.
But for even the best-prepared father,
it happens all at once.
On the other side of a plate-glass window,
a nurse is holding up something
roughly the size of a loaf of bread
for him to see for the first time. 5
God bless Stephani’s dad – may he represent the majority –
we’re still out here.
And bless her for giving him recognition.
Score one for the good guys!
Don't make a baby if you can't be a father.
Dear Dad,
It seems a long time
since we've had a chance to talk,
except superficially,
and that's my fault.
You are always there for me,
as you have been ever since I was born.
Have I told you lately
how much that has always meant to me?
Probably not, because, like so many people,
I have trouble telling those I care about most
just how much I really love them.
Even though I don't see you as often as I'd like to,
I am aware, every day, of your presence in my life
and the influence you have had on me.
I don't remember being a month-old baby,
but I do remember every time I look at the old broken down rocking chair,
the story of how you sat up with me the night before my christening,
rocking me because I had colic and wouldn't stop crying.
I also remember the other part of the story
- how the rocker broke
and you hurt yourself
to make sure I wasn't hurt.
I vaguely remember our time in Kelowna,
when you carried me around the orchard,
even during busy times,
so I could have the fun of picking the fruit
that was way out of the grasp
of my anxious two-year-old hands.
And I do remember
that when I decided to catch minnows with your shoes,
you didn't punish me.
You just made sure
that I didn't get too deep into the water.
I remember sitting on your lap as a child,
laughing and playing.
I will never forget the day I flung back my hand,
hit you in the face
and knocked out your partial plate.
It took you over an hour
to convince me to come out from under my bed,
to make me believe
I hadn't knocked out
half a dozen of your teeth!
I think a lot of people would have laughed at me
and given up,
figuring I'd come out eventually.
Later, I remember you coming home from work
and stripping the old paint off the walls of my room,
just so could paint it in the pink and grey
that I decided that I wanted.
Did I ever thank you for that?
And did I ever tell you
how much the corsages you gave me for musical recitals,
meant to me?
To this day when I smell roses,
I think of them.
Yellow roses are still my favourites
- and you were the only person
who ever gave me corsages made of yellow roses.
There were all the times when you gave up your evenings
to drive me to music lessons
and Girl Guides and church events.
The distance wasn't very great,
but you cared so much
that you wouldn't let me walk home in the evenings.
There were all the times you bandaged my cuts and bruises
and sat beside me when I was upset about something.
I know now some of the worries and fears
that were plaguing you at the time,
but always you protected me from them.
My upset stomachs
or childish heartbreaks
were always given priority.
I remember the big gifts you gave me,
but more than those,
I remember the small things
- the special pen that I wanted,
the ice cream cone at the zoo,
the tiny plant
because I wanted to see
if I could grow something,
the small tins painted to match my room
so I could store my childhood treasures in them,
the 5 cent stamp I needed
to complete a series
that took you weeks to find.
Those are the tangible things, Dad,
and they were important
because every one said
"I love you."
But they don't begin
to touch the intangible things you gave me.
There was always your love
and your unquestioning acceptance of me,
even - maybe especially –
at the times I just couldn't accept myself
and what I had done.
It seems a long time
since we've had a chance to talk,
except superficially,
and that's my fault.
You are always there for me,
as you have been ever since I was born.
Have I told you lately
how much that has always meant to me?
Probably not, because, like so many people,
I have trouble telling those I care about most
just how much I really love them.
Even though I don't see you as often as I'd like to,
I am aware, every day, of your presence in my life
and the influence you have had on me.
I don't remember being a month-old baby,
but I do remember every time I look at the old broken down rocking chair,
the story of how you sat up with me the night before my christening,
rocking me because I had colic and wouldn't stop crying.
I also remember the other part of the story
- how the rocker broke
and you hurt yourself
to make sure I wasn't hurt.
I vaguely remember our time in Kelowna,
when you carried me around the orchard,
even during busy times,
so I could have the fun of picking the fruit
that was way out of the grasp
of my anxious two-year-old hands.
And I do remember
that when I decided to catch minnows with your shoes,
you didn't punish me.
You just made sure
that I didn't get too deep into the water.
I remember sitting on your lap as a child,
laughing and playing.
I will never forget the day I flung back my hand,
hit you in the face
and knocked out your partial plate.
It took you over an hour
to convince me to come out from under my bed,
to make me believe
I hadn't knocked out
half a dozen of your teeth!
I think a lot of people would have laughed at me
and given up,
figuring I'd come out eventually.
Later, I remember you coming home from work
and stripping the old paint off the walls of my room,
just so could paint it in the pink and grey
that I decided that I wanted.
Did I ever thank you for that?
And did I ever tell you
how much the corsages you gave me for musical recitals,
meant to me?
To this day when I smell roses,
I think of them.
Yellow roses are still my favourites
- and you were the only person
who ever gave me corsages made of yellow roses.
There were all the times when you gave up your evenings
to drive me to music lessons
and Girl Guides and church events.
The distance wasn't very great,
but you cared so much
that you wouldn't let me walk home in the evenings.
There were all the times you bandaged my cuts and bruises
and sat beside me when I was upset about something.
I know now some of the worries and fears
that were plaguing you at the time,
but always you protected me from them.
My upset stomachs
or childish heartbreaks
were always given priority.
I remember the big gifts you gave me,
but more than those,
I remember the small things
- the special pen that I wanted,
the ice cream cone at the zoo,
the tiny plant
because I wanted to see
if I could grow something,
the small tins painted to match my room
so I could store my childhood treasures in them,
the 5 cent stamp I needed
to complete a series
that took you weeks to find.
Those are the tangible things, Dad,
and they were important
because every one said
"I love you."
But they don't begin
to touch the intangible things you gave me.
There was always your love
and your unquestioning acceptance of me,
even - maybe especially –
at the times I just couldn't accept myself
and what I had done.
To submit comments, requests or materials,
contact me at: outreach@dawncoveabbey.org
contact me at: outreach@dawncoveabbey.org
I gladly welcome all article, haiku, humour and poem contributions
For transformational workshops and retreats see:
http://www.dawncoveabbey.org/healing-circle
For transformational workshops and retreats see:
http://www.dawncoveabbey.org/healing-circle
 |  |  |  |  |
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