Fragile Body: Faithful God

I try to update on Mondays, but Father’s Day is special. Don’t worry, I will still post something tomorrow.

I have known two men as fathers in my life. The first was my flesh and blood. He passed away 10 years ago, but because of health issues he had been in and out a while before that. It was hard to watch a man that strong succumb to life’s hardships and I was emotionally adrift. That’s where the second man enters. We may not share blood but we both share my mom’s heart. He was the surrogate I didn’t know I needed until years after he stepped into the role. So, these two pieces were written to honor them. Happy Father’s Day.

For Father’s Day, Ten Years Later

Ten years have passed,
and still, Father’s Day finds me
listening for the sound of your voice
in the quiet places of my life.

I hear you in the way I pause
before answering in anger,
in the way I try and choose patience
when the day has worn me thin,
in the way I keep showing up
because you taught me love
was not only something spoken,
but something carried.

You carried so much.

More than I understood then.
The weight of work,
the weight of worry,
the weight of being needed
and still finding a way
to stand tall beneath it.

Your endurance was not loud.
It did not ask for applause.
It was steady and sure.
More reliable than the sunrise,
faithful as a hand on my shoulder,
strong enough to make hard things feel possible.

You loved deeply,
not always with grand words,
but with presence,
with sacrifice,
with the kind of care
that made a home feel safe
and a child feel seen.

And your wisdom—
some of it I accepted too late,
some of it I resisted,
some of it I did not recognize
until I found myself living it.

Now I understand.
A man’s guidance can outlive his footsteps.
A father’s example can keep walking
long after his hands are gone from this world.

I see you in the husband I try to be—
more patient,
more faithful,
more willing to listen,
more aware that love is measured
not by being perfect,
but by being present.

I see you in the father I try to be—
in the lessons I pass down,
in the protection I offer,
in the prayers I whisper,
in the moments I choose tenderness
because I remember yours.

I wish you could see it all.
The life that grew from your love.
The man shaped by your endurance.
The family still warmed
by the light you left behind.

But maybe you do see it,
in ways I cannot name.
Maybe love this deep
does not end at goodbye.
Maybe guidance like yours
keeps finding its way home.

So today, Dad,
I honor you not only with grief,
but with gratitude.

For the love you gave.
For the strength you showed.
For the wisdom you left in my keeping.
For the path you cleared
without ever needing credit.

Ten years later,
I am still your son.
Still learning from you.
Still guided by you.
Still trying to live in a way
that would make you proud.

For the Man Who Chose to Stay

There are some men
who become fathers
not by blood,
not by name,
not by anything the world can easily measure,

but by the way they enter a broken place
and refuse to make it feel more broken.

You came into the lives of five men
already grown but in so many ways, still boys
who were drifting in the quiet storm
of missing what each of us craves—
a steady voice,
a safe hand,
a man who could look at their hurt
and not turn away.

You did not demand trust.
You earned it slowly.

With patience that did not rush healing,
with compassion that listened beneath the anger,
with love that made room for confusion,
questions,
silence,
and all the ways men learn to hide their pain.

You understood
that people do not always know how to ask
for what they are missing.

So you answered needs
before they became words.

You showed up
without asking to be called anything.
You guided without trying to replace.
You loved without keeping score.
You stayed without needing recognition.

And in that staying,
something began to settle.

Our lives felt less empty.
The days felt less uncertain.
The men learned that manhood
could be gentle,
that strength could be patient,
that love could arrive quietly
and still change everything.

You became a kind of shelter,
not because you had all the answers,
but because you were willing to sit with the questions.

You became a kind of father,
not because anyone asked you to fill a place,
but because your heart was wide enough
to stand near it with honor.

For five boys who were emotionally adrift,
you became a shore.

Not perfect.
Not pretending.
Just present.

And sometimes presence
is the miracle.

So, I honor you, today and every day,
for the compassion you carry,
for the patience you practice,
for the love you give freely,
for the understanding that made room
for wounds you did not cause
but still helped heal.

You may not have been our first father,
but you were a father when we needed one.

And that kind of love
leaves a legacy
no bloodline can limit,
no title can contain,
and no passing years can erase.

Happy Father’s Day

Final Question: Who is someone who helped shape you that you would like to recognize today? What were the most impactful things they did?

“As a father shows compassion to his children,
so the LORD shows compassion to those who fear him.”
Psalm 103:13

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