It was a glass mug that I treasured dearly. My sophomore year in college my little sister, Carole, had given me the mug for Christmas. As a special treat she had engraved my nickname, “Joey” into the Mug. It wasn’t fancy or expensive; just a regular glass mug. After my sister passed away the mug took on a sentimental value and I loved it. It was a beautiful reminder of a sister that was also my best friend.
This mug had survived a year of dormitory life, nine years of Brooklyn apartment living, a move to New Jersey, a cross-country move to California, and three moves around the city of Los Angeles. Alas, the mug couldn’t survive children.
Unfortunately for me, my favorite glass also struck the fancy of my number one son. When reaching for a mug to drink from, this was the one he often chose. I explained the significance of the mug to him and he promised to be careful. Of course little boys always promise to be careful just like they always promise to be good. Given enough time they always end up breaking both promises. One day while not paying attention he went to set the mug on the edge of the counter and missed. The glass fell to the floor shattering into 20 pieces. My wife was sure that all hell was about to break loose, but I have really been working hard on understanding what is important in life. It would be a lie to say that I didn’t remind my son of the mugs history through slightly clenched teeth. However, to my credit (I think) and my wife’s surprise, I didn’t yell. I took a breath, reminded myself that this was only a glass, grabbed the broom and dustpan and swept the pieces into the garbage. Se la vie.
A wise man once told me that nothing real can ever be taken away. The mug is gone, but the love, respect and admiration I feel for my sister remains. That’s the good stuff. The same is true of being a parent.
A few weeks ago I watched this same son perform a karate form for his school talent show. It was one of those moments that parents are all too familiar with: your heart swells, your throat tightens and the water comes to your eyes. It is a feeling of transcendent euphoria that is difficult to describe to those that have not felt it.
My sons often ask me what heaven will be like. I playfully respond it will be like taking a bite of the most perfect pepperoni pizza you have ever tasted or lifting your head into the most perfect breeze. I think I will add that heaven must certainly be something near to the good stuff of parenting: kissing the softest, fattest, most milk smellingest cheeks of your new born, the sweet comfort in the hug made with little arms, bathing in the most radiant smile of your son when he hits his first homerun or scores his first touchdown, or watching from the audience as your child performs.
I have often wondered about parents – fathers in particular that choose NOT to experience the good stuff. These are the fathers that choose not to take an active role in their children’s lives. We know the statistics all too well: 85% of children from “this” group do not have regular contact with their fathers, 55% of children from “that” group do not see theirs.
The studies are clear on the negative impact absentee fathers have on their children. What we don’t know is what affect absence has on fathers. I can only imagine that a man that fathers children yet chooses not to raise them suffers some deep damage to the soul. If being immersed in the good stuff is heaven then being removed from it must certainly be hell.
I treasure fatherhood especially because it’s replete with broken mugs, broken beds, sunflower seeds in the dryer, socks on the ceiling fan. All of it is the good stuff. I wouldn’t miss any of it for the world.