Introductory Words

WITH KIT, AGE 7, AT THE BEACH
WILLIAM STAFFORD

We would climb the highest dune,
from there to gaze and come down:
the ocean was performing;
we contributed our climb.

Waves leapfrogged and came straight out of the storm. What should our gaze mean?
Kit waited for me to decide.

Standing on such a hill, what would you tell your child? That was an absolute vista.
Those waves raced far, and cold.

"How far could you swim, Daddy, in such a storm?" "As far as was needed," I said,
and as I talked, I swam.

Sermon

I swear by oatmeal as a way to maintain good digestive health. Because I do have some digestive problems, I have been attentive to healing foods over the years that support my health and improve it when I'm not feeling too great. Foods like carrots (especially carrot juice), broccoli, potatoes, brown rice, and tofu have seen me through good times and bad.

So when our son Andy got to the age when he first began to eat solid foods, one of the first things I fed him was oatmeal. And thankfully, he likes it. Since I eat it each morning, I always make a little bit more for Andy. We have developed quite a ritual around the morning oatmeal, followed by some fruit, more often than not a banana, and then some green stuff - a nutritional digestible blue-green algae high in beta-carotene and folic acid I take as a dietary supplement mixed with juice.

Recently we bought some inexpensive bar stools on which Andy can sit and be at a comfortable height to eat or play on the kitchen counter. Andy loves to sit at the counter and watch me going about the cooking process. One evening he found a long thin wooden back scratcher in a drawer and tried to use it to stir the pot I was stirring.

Lately, Andy has wanted to participate in the oatmeal- cooking process. So I positioned the stool a safe distance from the stove and set out a plastic bowl, a measuring cup and a canister of oatmeal. Andy then dipped the measuring cup into the oatmeal and gathered up a few flakes to dump into the bowl. After transferring little more than a pinch, he began to eat it. Watching Andy's absorption in his activity, I started reflecting on my own fatherhood.

I remember speaking with a couple at one of the many U.U. gatherings I have attended over the years about their minister. If you haven't experienced this already, anything the minister does seems fair game for evaluation and criticism. This minister was a "born-again" father who spoke frequently from the pulpit about the miracle of having a child and what he was learning. I suspect he did this without much awareness that others had walked this path as well. From the slightly bored attitude of the couple I was speaking to, I got the message that I shouldn't talk too much about my own children in my future sermons. So today being Father's Day, and also the last sermon of the '94-'95 church year, I hope you will grant me a little leeway to talk about myself for a while.

Before I met Philomena, I was ambivalent about becoming a father. From the time I was a small child, I heard my parents discuss the evils of overpopulation. My parents were members of organizations which advocated zero population growth. A family at most should have two children to replace their parents.

If I could have been an adult at 10 years old, I would have been happy. As I grew up, I yearned to be smarter and wiser so I could be like my own father who is a professor of chemistry. I idolized my father as a scientist, the high priest of Humanism rigorously seeking truth that stands the test of time. I had little or no interest in being with children who were younger and dumber than I was. I knew I'd need a running start to fill these size 13 shoes someday. And of what intellectual value is being with babies? Just the thought of holding a baby which might poop or vomit on me made me ill. Change a diaper? You've got to be kidding!

When I discovered I had a chronic intestinal condition in my teenage years, fatherhood seemed less well-advised because of the possibility of passing it on to my children. I had suffered enough - I didn't want to create any more suffering for someone else.

During my middle twenties I started exploring the world of spiritual practice as presented by different teachers and sects I discovered living in Berkeley. Out of my investigations, I discovered a strong affinity for the form of Buddhist meditation I practice now. I was able to study it extensively in seminary under the guidance of a delightful Buddhist monk from Sri Lanka. This form of meditation called Vipassana comes from Southeast Asia where it is predominately practiced by monks who renounce home, possessions and family to realize the same truth the Buddha realized, using the techniques he taught. My attraction to the wisdom found in these teachings started me wondering if I too should become a monk or find some way to devote my life to realizing these teachings.

Next year I'm planning to do a couple of sermons on some of the understanding found in Buddhist thought. I find it quite compatible with much of what is advocated by Humanists. Buddhism is an excellent bridge from the rational to the spiritual because it is founded on personal experience rather than faith. Enough Buddhism for now. This is a teaser for next year.

So when Philomena and I met during my internship in Rochester, New York, I was full of mixed feelings about being a father. And Philomena turned up the heat. Early in our relationship, Philomena made it clear that she was looking for someone who wanted a family.

Perhaps you have noticed that decisions in the abstract are a lot harder than when a concrete situation presents itself. Eros and biology often tip the scales. My attraction to Philomena was very strong. I was aware early in our relationship that Philomena would be a woman who could be a good mother. We poked, prodded and tested each other until we finally decided that, yes, let's get married and start a family.

Fatherhood starts pretty early, long before the child is conceived. Subtle changes in the importance of security, a steady income, a modest debt load, and things like life insurance. During one's single years, one's attitude is live for today. Once family is in the back of one's mind, tomorrow starts to become a whole lot more important. I never would have wasted my money on life insurance until Philomena was pregnant and it dawned on me that my death when Splotch (our temporary name for the fetus in Philomena's womb, from the expression of the sonogram technician, "See, there's the splotch", as we eagerly peered at the screen), when Splotch is young matters a whole lot. And someday we will want to send Splotch to college!

But with the movement toward new responsibility is the resistance to change one's ways. Philomena, a friend and I attended the movie "Thunderheart" towards the end of her pregnancy. We were all enjoying the movie and engrossed in the action when Philomena whispered to me something about suddenly feeling very wet. Indeed her seat was soaked. Her water had broken. She started getting excited and talking about our need to leave right away and go to the hospital. My initial reaction was irritation. "Here we are in the middle of the movie. The suspense is building and you want to leave?" I thought to myself. "The baby can wait!" We left. We called the hospital from the lobby. Sure enough, "Bring her in!" they said. I didn't realize how nervous I was until we started driving to the hospital. Philomena was talking excitedly and I had to request that she be calmer and quieter if we wanted to get the car to the hospital in one piece. I deepened my breathing to ward off a feeling of light-headedness. "Oh my God! I'm going to be a father!"

My first experience of being a father was tremendous pride and respect for Philomena as I watched her going through the strains of labor. It is a pleasant surprise to see the resources within one's partner you didn't know were there. Philomena stayed with the breathing and the exercises we had learned in childbirth classes at our HMO until a little head started poking out from between her legs. He remained stuck there for what must have been just a few minutes but to us seemed hours. It was a privilege to be present for that moment in the birth of my child as the midwife and the nurses patiently waited for the final push. How well I remember awkwardly holding my son for the first time and wondering how I could possibly be responsible enough for the care of such a tiny human being. I'm sure glad they don't come out two-year-olds.

Fortunately for us, Andy was a good baby. And he started sleeping through the night quickly. This made the loss of freedom a little more bearable. I was pleasantly surprised to discover being vomited upon and changing one's own baby's diapers isn't as disgusting as I imagined. One of the great benefits of having a baby for me has been to increase my comfort level with other people's kids. Instead of viewing them as runny-nosed whiners, I realized from personal experience that they could be enjoyable little playmates. And another amazing skill came my way! I discovered I now have the remarkable ability to comprehend a dialect of English spoken by toddlers.

Just when I had gotten comfortable with being responsible for someone 24 hours a day, a new burden appeared on my shoulders. I've noticed Andy imitates my behavior and speech. Perhaps you remember my "Oh Shoot" episode of a few weeks back. Now I must watch what I do and say for I realize it is all being recorded for future reference. Rather intimidating when one sits and thinks about it!

The constant pressure of being a parent gets to you in subtle ways. When I began my course work in seminary, I fancied myself a devoted servant of others, bringing love, light and understanding into the world.

Now I just want enough time alone to read a few pages from the stacks of books that accumulate unread. Philomena and I carefully monitor the other's contribution to our family in the area of household chores to make sure the work is shared equitably.

Some of the self-discoveries of parenting have a darker side. Let us now return to the story of Andy participating in making oatmeal. When the oatmeal was cooked and the portion I had scooped out for Andy had cooled, I placed it at the other end of the counter where Andy usually sits, moving Andy to the stool over there. Andy was beside himself with distress at being removed from his scooping of oatmeal into the bowl. My encouragement of him to eat his breakfast inflamed his rage, pushing the oatmeal away angrily. Seeing that he wasn't going to eat or quiet down, I took him off the stool and put him on the floor, which only seemed to increase his fury. He went to sit on the couch and continued crying.

I try hard not to reward or punish tantrums so that they don't get any reinforcement. I watched him calmly and ate my oatmeal. Andy started to quiet down and did something I find remarkable, that I didn't know children do. He knew that a distance had been created between us that was scary for him. After I have punished him for something he has done, he often tries to re-establish our relationship in some way so he feels forgiven. He usually does this by bringing me a book to read to him so we can sit together and interact. Books have been the way he can ask for physical closeness with his parents.

So Andy brought over a book for us to read and I left my breakfast so we could be together. As I sat with him and read, he started turning the pages before I had finished reading and then turning back to an earlier page. "He is trying to control me as we read as a substitute for controlling breakfast preparation!" I thought. I felt a sudden primitive anger suddenly grab me. I felt a deep urge to demonstrate my superiority to my son and put him in his place. "I'm in control here, not you! I am the leader of this tribe of three and don't get any ideas!" I felt like the leader of a pack of dogs or a lion disciplining an upstart young male in the pride. I felt like the wrathful, angry God of the Old Testament ready to send down a lightning bolt. I didn't know I had any Yahweh in my blood! The journey of self-discovery can be one insult after the next.

Having a child, one learns a lot about emotions. The little creatures are bundles of feeling. When they feel good, they glow with joy. But a moment later, they can feel as if their soul as been destroyed as a dangerous object is removed from their hands. And a minute later they are happy again having completely forgotten anything was wrong. How many of us can forget an insult that quickly?

The transformational magic of being a father isn't what one plans or prepares for; it is the unexpected challenges that push one beyond one's limits. What feeds the spirit is not resisting or rushing the growing process, but rather meeting each challenge with attention, care, energy, intuition, and acceptance. Each challenge is an opportunity to grow one's humanity. The result of one's efforts will eventually be out of one's control, taking to the wing flying the path only known to them. As my father taught me, "Do your best, and to hell with the rest."

Of all the struggles and delights of being a father, probably my favorite is having a new little companion in my life who I will be linked with until I die and perhaps even longer.

Andy and I go for rides on my bicycle in the morning and we ride around our neighborhood seeing the rabbits, snakes, birds, bugs and whatever else is out and about before 8:00am. More than any other time, here we are together enjoying the cool of the morning, sharing our comments about the world around us while moving together in the same direction. Perhaps having Andy on the back of my bike is the closest I'll ever come to having him within me. Like all stages of childhood, it's only a short time we will be able to share in this way before he will be on his own bike going his own way. So for the moment I'm savoring the time we have together which becomes more precious as each day goes by.

Being a father has been good for me. Being a parent stretches one's boundaries to include more than one's own concerns and interests. I'm not the same person I was before Andy came into my life and I doubt I will be the same in two more years. I'll keep you posted.

Closing Words

A STORY
Li-Young Lee

Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can't come up with one.

His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.

In a room full of books in a world of stories,
he can recall not one, and soon, he thinks,
the boy will give up on his father.

Already the man lives far ahead,
he sees the day this boy will go.
Don't go! Hear the alligator story!
The angel story once more! You love the spider story.
You laugh at the spider. Let me tell it!

But the boy is packing his shirts, he is looking for his keys.
Are you a god, the man screams, that I sit mute before you?
Am I a god that I should never disappoint?

But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?
It is an emotional rather than logical equation,
an earthly rather than heavenly one,
which posits that a boy's supplications
and a father's love add up to silence.

Copyright (c) 1995 by Rev. Samuel A. Trumbore. All rights reserved.