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Passage and Verse | May 2011
Father's Day Dedications
- "Nothing to Prove" - a song by Joel Blunk
- Only Love Remains - a reflection by an Initiated Man from Arizona MALEs
- Our Fathers tis of Thee - a reflection and prayer-poem by Bill McElroy
"Nothing to Prove"
a song by Joel Blunk, MROP 2006, Frost Valley, NY
Written and recorded in 1996, Joel dedicates this song to his dad, someone who's helped him to learn he's got nothing to prove.
Only Love Remains
by an Initiated Man from Arizona MALEs
"I've always loved you and I always will."
I grew up the son of a small-scale farmer in rural Ireland. This meant that my father needed a day-job to support our family, so he managed the local furniture store. He was quite industrious and after working at the store all day, his real work began.
The complex relationship in Ireland between a man and his land was played out on our 12-acre, water-logged farm that we unkindly joked could be measured by the bucket-full rather than the acreage. My father raised cattle, we grew our own vegetables, had an orchard, a greenhouse, and hens roamed the land. It was simple and sustainable living long before it became fashionable. My father was a bit of an entrepreneur, so there were unsuccessful forays into raising sheep (they sank) and bantam cocks (they crow really early). My parents also ran a bed-and-breakfast in our small town and bred Pomeranian dogs. My childhood was full of activity that took up my father’s time.
My mother would refer to my dad as “the great provider.” We never went hungry and there always seemed to be enough money. It certainly wasn’t easy when living in one of the poorest counties in Ireland. I imagine today people might think that we lived in poverty, but the truth is that we always had enough and our home was always filled with love. My dad would bring my mother fresh flowers—never from a flower shop, of course!
I have never doubted my father’s love for me. Truthfully, I recall times when I wished he paid more attention to my athletic endeavors and academic achievements. But this world was unfamiliar to him. His formal schooling finished when he was 11, typical for the son of an Irish farmer in the 1930s. His generation knew only how to survive and all else seemed to be a luxury. I was the dutiful son who did everything right, never gave my parents any problems, and would eventually enter the monastery—much to my mother’s delight and some unspoken reservation on the part of my father. I would later leave the monastery and receive a warm, wonderful welcome from him. I remember when I told my parents I was leaving the monastery, he said something like, “You know we love you, so do what you think is best.”
Four years later, I would announce my intention to leave Ireland and emigrate to the U.S. My father took me to the train station, knowing that he would not see me for a potentially long time—he having grown up in a time when emigration meant you did not return. I will never forget that day. A 70 year-old at the time, he ran alongside the train as it left the station, waving to me until he reached the end of the platform, tears running down his cheeks. I can surely say that I have seen my Father’s love.
13 years ago this summer my father’s health began to decline, initially marked by a bout with prostate cancer. In the time since, his memory loss has become acute. Having never smoked or drank, today at the age of 87 he looks like he’s still in his mid-70s. He is still active and lives in his own home. He couldn’t tell you what day of the week it is or what happened a minute ago, but he still knows his three sons by name and remembers the basic details of our lives.
When you enter his house, you will get the warmest of welcomes. He will greet you like a long-lost friend and it will often be accompanied by a kiss and a hug. He is indiscriminate with his warmth and love. Gone are concerns about cattle, land, silage, crops or earning a shilling. The only thing he has left to give is his love and he it gives freely.
When I call him, he asks me the same set of questions, “Where are you today? What is your weather like? Do you have enough work?”
He follows this series of questions and my answers to them by saying, “Ah son, I’ve always loved you and I always will.” I can’t hear it enough and it brings tears to my eyes.
At a recent Firming in Arizona based on the parable of the Prodigal Son, I had an opportunity to reflect on my earthly father and his gifts to me. At this point in our lives, my relationship with Dad is all about an exchange of love. The parable of the Prodigal Son calls us all to become more like the father and in my case, it is modeled for me by my earthly father. This is my inheritance and I’m pleased to have this opportunity to share a piece of it with you.
Our Fathers tis of Thee
by Bill McElroy, MROP 2004, Ghost Ranch, NM
My father was a good man. Everyone said so. He worked hard to put us through private schools, to put the roof over our heads and feed us, but I did not know him.
My Dad was a used car salesman for his whole life. There were good years and there were tough years. He worked about 60 hours a week to give us the life we had, which I thought was just fine. As the years passed and five siblings followed me, I was more and more on my own because the younger ones needed more attention. But I had lots of friends and we were outside all of the time. We would swing home for lunch and dinner, and I played sports as I got older. And all through this “just fine” life, my Dad didn’t participate. He was never home. He worked hard for us.
As the years went on, I guess the pressures became too great for a father of six with a job that paid commission only. My Dad turned to drink more and more. He would have two or three drinks and then three or four “halves” that were really three-quarters. Through all of this, though, I did not think anything of it. His not being around for me or going to any of my games, or his drinking. Wasn’t this what every home was like? He died at age 54 of a heart attack at work when I was 29 years old. And it was not until later that I not only missed him, but learned what I had missed growing up.
I do not want to paint a terrible picture of my Dad. After all, he is not here to defend himself. He did give me some great advice on a career path that I followed and which has rewarded me. He taught me how to drive—safely—and how to dribble a basketball. (He was first team All-State—small forward.) Around eight years after his death, I had the opportunity reconcile with him. He was there that day for sure. I was in Ontario on a fishing trip with one of my good buddies. His talking about his Dad is part of what opened my eyes to what I had missed.
I ended up having one afternoon to myself. We were in a “fly in” camp so there was literally no one within many miles. I felt the strong urge to talk to my Dad and felt his presence in the air. We talked, mostly me, although I did “listen” somewhat. I cried. We cried. This was years before my introduction to contemplation. What I came to know in this exchange was 1) I had no idea what his relationship was like with his dad, and 2) he did the best he could with what he had, whenever he could. And that was good enough for me. He was definitely a good enough father and I love him—and he loves me.
It took me many more years and working with men on father wound and father hunger issues before I realized that my father never once spoke of his father to me. One would think that I would have picked up on this sooner. It was on my Rites that this “occurred” to me. I became very present to this knowledge during one of the rituals. So then I extrapolated back in time: what was my grandfather’s relationship like with his father? Maybe not so good. How far back did it go?!
I decided at that moment that this had to stop with me! This will not go on down the line with my son! At that moment, I asked of my ancestral fathers to give me all their grief, all their intergenerational pain. I would take it all on me at this sacred moment, on this sacred ground, and heal it. I felt a wave of grief come over me. I choked and fell to my knees in the center of the circle and wept. I am not sure if there is a stronger word than cathartic for what I experienced that day.
Last summer I began what will be a yearly tradition of going camping with my young adult son. We went back-packing in Red River Gorge, Kentucky. I planned a ritual one evening that gave us time to talk about our relationship, let go of any hurts, to forgive each other. Then I gave him my Blessing, anointing him with oil (Chrism). I wrote this prayer-poem to him:
The Blessing
(For my eldest son)
You are Beloved of me
for who you are.
You are beloved before
the Ultimate Mystery,
One that many refer to
as God.
You are inherently a Beloved Son…
…you do not have to do anything
…you do not have to be anybody but yourself
…you do not have to accomplish anything special.
The Ultimate Mystery
…is real
…is benevolent
…is relational and intentional.
The universe is home
And you are one with it.
This is what I know.
My undying love and
this knowledge are what
I give to you this day
in this Blessing.
Carry it with you always
Knowing of your goodness
and your place “in the family of things.”
Love, Dad
Do you have a poem, essay or photo that captures a particular men's issue or aspect of men's spirituality that is important to you? Submit it for consideration in an upcoming issue of The Drumbeat. Submission guidelines are as follows: Poems may have up to 50 lines. Essays should be between 400 and 700 words in length. Digital photos should be taken in high resolution (high dpi) and measure at least 500 pixels wide by 300 pixels high. Please email your submission to menswork@cacradicalgrace.org with subject: "For Drumbeat: Passage and Verse."
