THE CRY FOR DADDY

After a year, when the late-night nursing were beginning to exhaust my wife, Mary. I knew it was time for Dad to take over. But I’m a heavy sleeper. I didn’t look forward to being awakened randomly at night. “I don’t know how you do it.” I’d often said to Mary. Well it was time to find out.

I confess I balked at nighttime feedings partly because John-Miguel, a little over 1 year old, always awoke crying “Mommy”! I felt like a second-fiddle mom – and not a very good one at that. In fact, I started out as more hindrance than help. John Miguel’s cries were not loud enough to wake me, but they did wake Mary, who soon learned that only a well-placed elbow in my side would bring me to consciousness.

The elbow and relentless cries for “Mommy!” were not pleasant motivators, and with that first nighttime whimper I began bargaining with the Lord. I prayed. I begged. I was ready to deal. Please, Lord, make him sleep! It’s better for the baby, after all. I’ll pray for an hour a day. I’ll increase my tithe! But still the cry for “Mommy!” went on.

Yawning, I rolled out of the sack and stumbled into John-Miguel’s bedroom. Maybe it won’t be all that bad after all, I told myself. I took a deep breath. “Daddy’s here!” I announced hopefully: “It’s okay!” To my pleasant surprise, the room fell silent. Well, that wasn’t so hard! I though and confidently stepped toward the crib.

“MOMMMYYY!” Shattering my eardrums along with my ego, the cry blasted forth with renewed vigor. Startled, I stopped – then sighed. Gingerly, I picked my boy up and put him on my shoulder. Week after week, bottle after bottle, I pushed on through the cries for Mommy– dutifully, if not lovingly. Soon, however, I began to enjoy just holding my little son. Before long, I was praying for him, even singing my prayers softly at times. On a few especially tough nights, we walked out onto the patio, under the stars, and talked about moons and dogs and raisin bread.

And then late one night, it happened. Lost in heavy sleep, I stirred as a strange sound tapped lightly on my ear. “DAA-DEE...” My eyes flickered open, closed again. Shifting, I reached to pull the covers higher. “DA-DEE! DAA-DEEEE!”

Bold and full-throated, the small voice pierced the dark morning stillness like a bugle. My eyes exploded open. Lurching from the bed, I raced into John-Miguel’s room and scooped him up in my arms. “That’s my man!” I cried out, laughing and lifting him high above my head. “Hallelujah! That’s my man!”

“What’s going on in there?” Mary called out sleepily from our bedroom. “I didn’t even wake you up, and you’re in there making all that noise!” Sheepishly, I lowered a confused and bleary-eyed John-Miguel to my chest. “I’m not sure... exactly what’s going on,” I called back. “But... it’s okay. I mean, it’s good.”

I help my son against me at last and smiled. “Real good,” I whispered, shaking my head. “Real good” What, indeed, stirred–even leapt–within me that night when I first heard my son cry out “Daa-dee!?

Certainly my joy came partly from waiting so long for him to acknowledge the bond between us. And yet, when I had rejoiced fully, and both he and Mary were asleep again, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling in awe, gripped by something deeper. I was identifying with the cry of my son. In his baby’s voice, I hear something I recognized in myself.

I believe every man harbors that cry deep within his masculine soul. It’s the primal, human cry for security and saving power in a dark and broken world: “Save me, Daddy!” Before Mary and I had children, my best friend–a father of two-told me. “Nothing will help you understand the love of God like having a child of your own.” He was right.

May we fathers dare listen to the cry for “DADDY” in our own hearts so we can recognize it is our own children and respond in love. That’s how we witness to them about the Spirit of God, who saves us from fear and “makes us sons, enabling us to cry “Abba! Father!” (Romans 8:15)

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY

Pastor Dora