It’s not wrong that I want to be a father. Naive, I give you, give you in spades.


My want to be a father is the want I have to hold my children with the warm, strong, rough hands that tell tales of woe and work, sure safety and consistent comfort, by the scratches they leave on their innocent skin. I want them to know what I know, and what I want for them.


It is the same comforting love that some rough, scared hands scratched in to my soul, long ago. That no matter the storms and no matter the drowning roar of supernatural hatred, there is a still, small voice that sings rhymes of truth and hope. A song that knows more than its’ small words let on. A song of victory already won.


I know the daily annoyances will rob me of the strength to be the hero I want to be for them. But even on the days when I feel reduced by their burden, down to where they crawl around on the ground, I want those moments where I can meet them eye to eye and let them know they are loved, and fought for, and delighted in. Darkness gives way to light and there will always be someone there to mend up their scratched knees and kiss their tears away.


Call me old fashioned, but I’d rather have one woman and a quiver full of children, than a quiver full of women and no children. I’d rather hold one woman for fifty years than hold fifty women every year.


I want my piece of the kingdom of heaven here on earth. I don’t want to live a life of taking samples from the 31 flavors of women. I want one that I can build a foundation of love with; to protect, lead and guide in the ways of hope and mercy and love. The flavor of the week mentality hits dopamine levels as powerful as any drug, but never reaches down into the soul.


We’ve been told that expressing a desire to have and to hold is a needy and negative expression. We’ve been told a lot of bogus things by our society, afraid of the shadow of authentic emotions.


I never had a father growing up. What whispers of fatherhood that were spoken in to my life never never rang as authentic fatherhood in my heart. It doesn’t take the reason of years to feel the wisdom of when the right chords are left unplucked in the heart. So I had to find what it is to be a man on my own. It wasn’t hard for me. Again, when the right chords are struck, my heart heralds truth and covets the fire of those light bearing torches.


Since becoming a full-blooded man I’ve sought the guidance of many older male mentors and fellow bearers of truth torches. One that I am coming to trust more than many I’ve known in the past spoke wisdom to me that has effected the way I look at relationships and willingness to expose my heart for others to wound.


He told me that the search for a woman is not the search for the “right” woman, nor is it the search for the woman with the “right baggage” that I can stand to live with. Instead, the search is to express who you are, give who you are in strength and openness, and the woman who fits with you will hear the music of your call and it will ring truth, as an ancient homeward song, in the deepest strung fibers of the instrument of her heart. Of course, he would say it in three words or less. But it doesn’t take too many words to ring forth the full sounding of truth.


And so I go, authentic and open, able to wound but never detour, ringing forth the truth of my life and heart. Waiting for the harmony of another, to begin composing the music of the laughter of children. Fill my home with that song, I pray.





Ps. 127:3-5; Pr. 4:11; Ps. 25:4-7