Nowadays, arriving home from work lacks the magic it once possessed. Most often, my wife is not yet home from her job, and so I enter without ceremony into an empty space. It can be a lonely feeling; but, it was not always so.
When my children were small, they seemed particularly attuned to the sounds of my arrival. By the time I put my key in the front-door lock, I would frequently hear little voices cry out, “Dad’s home!” And then, the thundering feet… those blessed thundering feet.
Perhaps the relative emptiness experienced when coming home today helps me appreciate more fully what I had in the past. Then again, maybe I’ve always known.
Whenever I see a young father walking hand-in-hand with his small child, I inevitably find myself hoping the man realizes the precious gift in his grasp. I hope he knows and understands the magnitude of his influence, the enormous power wielded by his opinion.
My sensitivity in this matter has deep roots.
I am one of those guys who always cries when Ray Kinsella’s father appears at the end of Field of Dreams. The scene taps into a broken part of my life, a part that, even 55 years into this journey, remains – at least to some degree – wounded and vulnerable.
Today, I recognize the same innocence and receptivity in my grandchildren’s faces that I found on those of my children. Dare I believe that it was once, a very long time ago, on my face as well?
Much good can be realized when working with such marvelous trust… or, of course, much harm!
“You’re not worth the powder to blow you to hell.”
They’re only words. Right?
No. Not really.