Back at the Ranch

I've often wondered what it's like to be a father. Being a dad is one of my biggest dreams, ever since I was young I wanted to be a father. I've always enjoyed being around kids, probably because it's relatively easy to spend time with people of your own maturity level and cognitive ability, but that isn't the reason. It's a dream, an aspiration; the glory of fatherhood. A lot of people get to do it, but few pull it off; there are plenty who give it a bad name or just never show up at all, but there are some people who just make it look good.

Maybe it was because I have a great father, and maybe it's because (by the grace of God) my parents had some pretty good kids, who, for the most part, did more to honor their parent's then embarrass them. My parents weren't perfect, and everyone knows their kids aren't, yet there was something they did that made this job look appealing, look dignified, look glorious.

Though my dream of fatherhood has not yet become a reality, in a way, I stand here in a gauntlet, my parental proving grounds so to speak. 24 young men, some with fathers of their own, some without, looking to me (whether they want to or not) for answers and direction, structure and stability, support and love.

I'm not an uncle yet either, but I've always viewed this job as more like being an uncle: someone does all the dirty work, you come in and have all the fun. It's not unrealistic, it's what my job is -- recreational therapy. Someone else does the diaper changing and the discipline, you come and smooth everything over. It's why we're youth minsters, because, at our best we help parent's do their jobs, and at our worst, we have them to blame it on -- after all, raising kids is not our responsibility.

This is why this job continually perplexes me. Uncles are great, they bring light and joy to your life in ways few others can, they know the ins and outs of your family but they're not fully sewn into the fabric. They give you stories about your parents, and help explain their point of view. They have the uncanny ability to be on "your side" yet still point you in the direction your parents want you to go. A good uncle is hard to come by, I have one of the best, but they're the first to tell you what you already know... they're not your father.

The more I question, the further I look, the less glorious fatherhood becomes, and the more appealing "unclehood" remains. It was never more evident than tonight.

I don't have any disillusions about fatherhood, to me part of the glory is not being afraid to change a dirty diaper, or redeeming the potentially embarrassing moments, holding the crying baby at the least convenient hour. In a weird way I look forward to those moments. I've had the opportunity here to help a young man change a dirty lifestyle, to redeem a potentially embarrassing moment, and even held those crying at the least convenient hour. As a father, those are the moments I will live for (which is easy to say now). Tonight was one of those moments you hope will never happen.

Horseplay is a fairly large offense here, because, if you're a male and more importantly you have a brother, you know that no matter how well intentioned it may be, horseplay always ends on a bad note. To the outsider looking in, it wasn't a big deal at all, one young man had a scratch under an eye, wounded pride was the only real injury sustained tonight. Yet, in here, it was much more serious. The pinned frustration, psychotropic medication, and angry outbursts would make a great story, and made for a chaotic evening, but they are not of consequence in this story.

Well after any of the "fun stuff" occurred, the real story took place. Trapped beneath every behavior is a feeling, either blatant or hidden, that is the catalyst to an event. My job, when all is said and done, is to figure that out. After bandaging bloody knuckles, and getting beyond the initial layer of crap that covers every story, I finally get the truth from one young man. Satisfied, I try my luck on the other side of the tussle, but to no avail. Long story short, one young man willing to tell the truth but afraid to snitch, the other trying at all costs to cover it up: which means, two uncooperative parties.

Maybe it's not right to play favorites, and with my boys I try my best to be impartial, but there are some that catch your heart. Not because they're the best behaved or the least aggressive, or even the most likeable, but because you know that they're the most reachable. That of all the residents there, you'll have the most impact on their lives. You love them because they're golden, because their hearts are malleable, because their lives are still transformable. I love all my boys, but you learn quick to recognize those who'll buck the system to the end, those who'll BS their way though only to repeat their folly when they get out, and the boys who will change. A seed is planted in every child, and with God's help a harvest can come down the road, but the final group sprouts the little green shoot of growth before your very eyes, and that creates a special place in your heart.

The liar tonight was one of my golden boys. It's an unnerving feeling when someone you love stands before you and lies to your face. Only in a small way did I re-live the pain I no doubt caused my parents every time I repeated that folly. It's like having your heart ripped out, trampled on, revived, and then trampled again... all while you stand to the side with a blank stare, helplessly watching. Time after time I gave him the opportunity to come clean, and time and time again his tongue could hide what has body couldn't: guilt. He knew he was caught, his cover was blown, yet he hung to the fleeting hope that his lies would save him.

I was not ready for that pain, and even less prepared for the one to follow. You see, my golden boy had been working hard for a long time to go to New Jersey for a basketball tournament that his real father had payed a fair amount of money for him to be in. It meant the world to him, and I had to take it away. I had to look into the same eyes that lied to me, and see no longer the pain of guilt, but the pain of a consequence so deep he couldn't bear to keep them open. And in doing so, ripped my own heart out, trampled on it, revived it, and then trampled again... helplessly standing to the side with a blank stare on my face.

The Uncle within me waged war with my stand-in father figure: "That's too harsh -- he worked too hard for you to take it away." "What about all the times in which you've lied to get out of something -- and got away with it!" Reason after agonizing reason ran through my head as to why I shouldn't stand my ground, why I shouldn't see this through. Yet some way, some how, as completely un-glorious as it was, the father stood tall.

Yeah, so it's a little different. I did not technically father them, nor raise them, in fact I missed out on all the cute, fun stages and get them in what the world would call the worst stage of their life. I was not the first person they knew, the man who changed their diapers, provided their meals, or took them to their first day of school. I wasn't the man that gave them their first piggy back ride, bought them their first bike, or bandaged their bloody knee. But I am the one who's looked into the needy eyes starving for answers, desiring direction, seeking structure, stability and support, and longing for love. Surely, in some small part, there lies the real glory of fatherhood. Not in the diaper changes, though they're essential; not in the piggy back rides, though they're enjoyable; not in pride healing, knee bandaging, bike riding, fun loving moments -- but in the glorious moments, when, whether they believe it or not, out of love you provide what's best.

"Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it"

Proverbs 22:6