Being there: thoughts on fatherhood...

I read a book recently titled “The Shack.” In it, the protagonist comes face to face with God personified as a large black woman. This engendering is as shocking to the protagonist as, I suspect, it is to most of the book’s readers. I also suspect the element of surprise, of grabbing hold of the reader’s expectations or assumptions or long-held beliefs and tossing them out the door (a nifty literary technique) emerges from the author’s desire to make a point about his own past.

Of course, God is not a large, black woman any more than God is an elderly white man with a flowing grey beard; God has no gender, though for centuries humans have been personifying God as a man – a father. The author of “The Shack” addresses this too saying, in part, that throughout history, human fathers have failed their children far more often than human mothers and so God felt compelled to become “father” to the world because that would fill the greatest human need. (I don’t know if I agree with the author on this point, but I would defend to my death his right to say it. We writers must stick together, after all.)

“The Shack” is a work of fiction, but thoughts on real fatherhood resonate this week as I reflect on the passing of my friend’s father, who was buried just a few days ago. At the man’s funeral service, I watched from the back of the room while each of his four sons paid his father respect before the casket was closed. The sons ranged in age from near fifty to nearly sixty.

In the room beside us were poster boards filled with snapshots of their life as a family: 61 years of marriage including sons and then their wives and then grandchildren and eventually great-grandchildren, all interspersed with pedal cars and big-boy cars, birthdays and dinners at the kids’, camping and fishing along with a beer with a bump… What I saw and heard and inferred as I watched those grown up and aging sons usher past their stilled father was that this man, this ordinary yet extraordinary man, this WWII veteran, retired bricklayer, had figured out how to be a father to his family throughout his life and up until the point when dementia stole his mind and he became a monument to his own history, the past that included his sons’ childhoods and their adulthoods.

As a culture, we’re encouraged to focus on the conflicts that surround us: wars, scandals, crime, corruption… this focus sometimes creeps into our family life, where we obsess about words that hurt, visits that were missed, expectations that go unmet, or nights when dad had one too many beers with a bump. Memories like these usually vanish when a stranger steps in front of you to close the casket that holds your father.

I am sure there are millions of ideas floating about on fatherhood. What makes one person a good father and another person a father who needs to kick it up a notch? I don’t have answers; if I did, I’d write a book as inspiring as “The Shack.”

But I do have this thought: if God can be a father to all who yearn for a father, then I figure fathers can by like a god for all who yearn for God. That means fathers can love us no matter how badly we screw up. It means fathers can be present to us, waiting in the wings to embrace us and lead us even when we desperately want to go it alone. It means fathers are there, whereever "there" happens to be. It means fathers can be love, personified.

The ways of old are ripe for rediscovery...

Last summer, while overseeing activities at the Farmers’ Market, an eight-year-old kid wandered into my office and sat down. Being one of the farmers’ kids, she was a regular at the market. And, of course, I was a regular there. That is why when she sat down next to me, I tossed her a casual “hi” without looking at her because I was busy logging data into my manager’s notebook and she returned a greeting, sitting down to focus on her task at hand – enjoying her afternoon snack.

It was a simple enough exchange between two friends focused elsewhere that it wouldn’t have taken root in my memory long enough to survive to the next day let alone this cold January six months later if it had not been for what transpired next.

What transpired next was an eight-year-old child digging into an afternoon snack like a lion digs into a downed antelope. The crunching was but a mere distraction; what caught my attention and held it was the commentary that came with every nibble: “Oh, delicious! Yummy. Mmmmm. This is so delicious. Sweet! Yummy, yummy. Oh, delicious…” Her narration of what seemed pure gastronomical pleasure went on and on and on, as she worked her way through her basket of … raw shelling peas.

Yes, folks. I looked up and there was a kid going bonkers over raw shelling peas! Now, I’m a fan of raw shelling peas myself so I didn’t think much of it at the time, though I kind of expect kids to muster this sort of enthusiasm only for Skittles of Reese’s Pieces or M&Ms. But, no, she was definitely enjoying shelling peas… really enjoying them.

I’m reminded of this moment this weekend because many mothers of young children struggle to get their kids to simply tolerate vegetables. Some even resort to disguising vegetables in order to get them into their kids’ diet. Having kids who actually enjoy veggies seems too much to ask. But really, it’s not. Tasty food draws crowds.

The problem, as I see it, is that most kids today only know vegetables by what they see at the local grocery store. That means the vegetables most kids know are just at the edge of spoilage, having been in the food delivery system for nearly two weeks and having been genetically altered so they “look” fresh even though they really aren’t. (Slimy baby carrots come to mind. So do moldy raspberries or January strawberries that are hard as a rock!)

Produce found in most grocery stores can’t be legitimately called “fresh,” and none of it tastes remotely like its counterpart grown and picked close to home. And that goes for those costly organic brands that travel the same routes and spend just as much time in the warehouse. Worse, the variety of vegetables at the grocery store from which moms can choose for their kids is sorely limited. (Do you remember seeing shelling peas in the grocery store recently?)

So, moms and kids, if you want to know how good real fresh vegetables can be, you have choices that don’t include grocery stores. You can plant a garden. You can go to a farmers market; there are plenty of them all across the state. Or, consider Community Supported Agriculture, where every week a basket of farm-fresh produce is assembled just for your family. Learn more here.

Of course, it is winter now and fresh, local shelling peas and raspberries and asparagus are months away from being available. In the winter, choices are few unless you planned ahead. That’s why, once farm-fresh produce comes available once more, even an eight-year-old knows it’s time to savor every yummy, delicious nibble.