My father is the kind of guy who wears socks with sandals. I can't remember if he ever wore a mobile phone in a holster that hung off the belt loop of his khaki trousers, but it seems like the sort of thing he might do. His fashion sensibility -- to the extent it ever existed -- has never changed. For at least 40 years now, he's always dressed the exact same way, a style we might call “Suburban Dad.”
You all know the style I'm talking about. It's the look of men who almost never buy their own clothes because all their income is dedicated to their children. They shop for their wardrobe in the bargain aisle of a big box store once per year so they have enough money to send their kids to dance class, sign them up to experience summer camp, and go to college.
The dad look is amusing, and now that I'm a father myself my teen daughters are beginning to relentlessly mock me for my own version of it, but it's a style that reveals a strong, sacrificial love. These fathers who walk around wearing cargo shorts and clunky white sneakers are heroes.
Dads never change. My own father woke up at the same early hour every morning, did his morning routine, went to the office, came home and coached one of our sports teams, and then watched half of an episode of Star Trek before falling asleep. Day after day, he did his job and spent time with his family. His goofy jokes have never changed. His haircut has never changed. (He did experiment with a mustache in the early 90s. Let's just say it didn't work out.) He still reads the same biographies of American war heroes. The only thing that has ever really changed about him is that, around the age of 50, he discovered he likes coffee. He now describes his failure to appreciate coffee at a younger age as, “One of the greatest regrets of my life.”
My brothers and I, in the course of going to college and moving around to different cities for jobs, have probably moved houses a dozen times. Our dad has helped each of us move, every single time. If I have a house project I cannot handle, he brings his tools and helps me. He's helped me finish the basement of my house. He helped me replace all the siding. One time, he showed me how to take the door off my car to replace the window motor. He helps me out literally any time I ask. That has never changed.
Life is a whirlwind of change, things lost and gained. We leave homes behind for new cities, switch careers, start families. Politics changes, pop culture changes, fashion changes, kids grow up and move away. Neighborhoods are in constant flux as people move in and out, businesses open up while other businesses close. It's hard to find steady footing in such a fast-paced world.
Good dads, it seems to me, are undervalued precisely because they're steadfast and dependable. It's easy to take them for granted. Later this week, for instance, we celebrate the feast of St. Joseph. In the Bible, Joseph has a few moments in which he's the protagonist. For instance, his dream about taking his family to Egypt or the firm decision he makes to protect Mary and follow through with marrying her. Other than that, though, he kind of fades into the background. He doesn't say much, more or less disappearing by the time Jesus becomes an adult.
Nevertheless, I sense his steady, fatherly presence. Throughout the childhood of Christ, he must have been there following his routine, working, telling corny jokes, falling asleep like clockwork at an early hour, taking the family to worship.
I think of steadfast fathers like rocks in a stormy sea. They're harbors of safety. As a child, I was free to be courageous and take risks because I knew my father would always be there to lend a helping hand. Now as an adult, that trust in him hasn't changed.
In my spiritual faith, too, and my own goals to be a good father to my children, the steady, quiet presence of St. Joseph is comforting. In our parish church, he's always there, his statue right next to Mary. He's holding the tools of his carpentry trade, ready to go to work yet another day. He knows who he is. He is a father, steadfast as the north star.
