The picture

Long before I was born my father took a trip to Washington DC and ended up traveling with a group of friends to Mount Vernon where he was photographed sitting on the lawn of that beautiful, old estate. He died when I was just sixteen, but I often found myself looking at that picture and thinking about 'what if'. What if he hadn't died? What if he hadn't ever started smoking cigarettes so that he had never ended up with emphsema? What if he was still alive now? Would we be good to each other? Would he be proud of me, sad for me, angry with me? I wonder if he would be the Dad I wish he would be when I make up dads in my head. So many men struggle with their fathers and the wounds of a father are among the deepest wounds, I think. He wounded me in his dying, but he had already slashed me long before he breathed his last breath. It is the way of fathers to slash their sons. I have slashed mine and though I would love to take all those words, actions, looks, and curses back, they hang between us and they cut still deeper over time. When I was a kid, I believed the lies my father told me. I didn't know that they were lies. And often I believe that he did not mean to tell them as lies, either. He wanted good for me even when his words destroyed the very thing he sought to make good.

I miss him. All these years later, I still miss him. I see men with their fathers and wish that I could chat with mine and say I'm sorry and forgive me and teach me and walk with me and help me when I am afraid and all the other things I imagine sons say to fathers. I long to hear his voice and I remember when I was small and we sat in the living room chair on Saturday night while Mom played the piano and sang the old songs and his long arms snaked around me and held me close and I felt so very, very safe. I look at his brothers and his sister and try to imagine what he might look like now, how he might talk, what mannerisms I have that he must have had. Aunt Marge says I have his personality, his humor, and that when she sees me she remembers him more clearly.

Kathy and I went off to Washington DC on a vacation last year and we made a side trip to Mount Vernon. I found the place where Dad once sat and asked Kathy to take my picture. We took a few until we got the pose correct and the distance from the house just right. George Washington was a creative genius and he was known as the father of our country. His estate is beautifully preserved and as I sat there on the grass, I thought about Dad and fatherhood and God and connections and the importance of good fathers. Countries need them, kids need them, I needed one. I realized in that moment that God is a father to me. That I am his kid. That he knows my longings and that he has his huge arms wrapped around me. I felt very, very safe.

Someday maybe my boys will make the journey. I would love to be the one who snaps the photograph.