fatherhood

Final Column: Farewell to Our Spiritual Home

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In 2003, when Jodi and I decided to move to Minnesota, I was media relations manager for Ferris State University in Michigan. We were in our twenties, both working, with three preschoolers in daycare and living five miles or so from my folks.

As I prepared to leave that role, a colleague a few years older than me gave me a set of nice pens inscribed with my name and three C words that he felt described me. I don’t recall the first two, but the last one was “Courage”—that one I remember because I thought it strange at the time. We were young and in love; I had just landed a great-paying job with a marketing firm in Minneapolis, and we had family in the Twin Cities area. What was so brave about it?

Now, preparing to move to Bismarck in our fifties, I know better. It is hard to leave the familiar, the comfortable, the secure—the blessings of a community that has been our haven for nearly half our lives, and the only home most of our five children can recall.

We are trying to be brave. It is not easy.

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‘Life Is Different with a Daughter’

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Last Saturday, our daughter Emma married Isaac, a Catholic high school tehology teacher and former seminarian from South Dakota, whom she met at the University of Mary. He’s a good man, she’s a wonderful young woman—but as any father of a little girl can tell you, life is different with a daughter.

It was an emotional day. I managed to hold myself together until just before my father-of-the-groom speech, below. The video begins with Jodi and I and Steve and Carol, Isaac’s folks, blessing the couple…

Book Break: Two Volumes by Matthew B. Crawford

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One of the great pleasures of these latter years as a father is receiving books and book recommendations from my grown children. The University of Mary in Bismarck, Saint John Vianney Seminary in Saint Paul, and the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal have led each of them on tremendous intellectual and spiritual journeys. Occasionally, I tag along.

This past Christmas, Brendan and Becky presented me two books I may have never encountered had Brendan not taken a surveying (as in, land measurement) course as an undergrad…a surveying course taught by a history professor with a love for useful arts and practical skills.

Both books are by Matthew B. Crawford, who holds a PhD in political philosophy and a prestigious research fellowship at the Institute for Advanced Studies at the University of Virginia. He also runs a motorcycle repair shop. In these two books, he makes a convincing case that we are ceding more and more of our will, abilities, and control to technologies and systems that make life easier by making it less lively, less human, less worth living.

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Wednesday Witness: Digging Deeper the Right Way

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Awhile back, Facebook served up to me an ad for sarcastic coffee mugs, including one that read “No One Cares. Work Harder.” I recognized it right away as that strain of humor that laments how soft we have become, how prone we are to excuses and taking the easy way out of tough situations—but it didn’t seem funny. 

See, I tend to think I need to handle whatever comes my way in order to measure up. I don’t want to fail or let anyone down, and I struggle to say no or ask for help. Reading that mug felt like the world’s weight settling on my shoulders: I’ll never be caught up. I’ll never retire. I’ll never rest.

Doing good work well is a virtue, but when our efforts become a relentless slog to do more, something changes. An old friend tells me that BUSY means Burdened Under Satan’s Yoke—because, as you’ll recall, Jesus says to take up His yoke, and we will find rest.

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A Year Apart: Reflecting on My Father’s Passing

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One year ago today, my father passed away.

I flew to Michigan early that morning with the experienced observation of a close family friend ringing in my head: It won’t be long. The flight was flawless and landed early. When the rental car clerk learned why I was in Michigan, he expedited everything, and I was on the road in minutes. Traffic moved. The pavement was dry. I drove the limit and made myself relax, reflecting that this was unfolding in God’s time, and I would arrive when I should.

I arrived just in time. My sister came out to greet me in the driveway and said she thought Dad may have just stopped breathing. I went in and held his hand, which was warmer to my touch than it had been in years. I spoke to him softly, telling him it was okay, telling him to go to the Lord and not to be afraid, telling him we were okay and would take care of each other. 

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