What does it mean to "honor thy father"? What, in fact, is a father? Who is he? What is he supposed to do? I wish answering these questions were as simple as singing "My Dad" and buying a Hallmark card, but it's not, especially since not all fathers deserve honor from their children. The only way I can think of to honor my father is to provide, by way of saying thanks, an account of what he gave to me that made my life possible.
He has always been "the provider." He joined the Air Force at 18 because he had a family to support. He's bought a zillion dollars worth of life insurance in his lifetime so that, as he says, "my mother wouldn't have to worry if he died." For as long as I can remember he was the sole breadwinner in the family, and we never lacked for anything we wanted. He is, in short, the epitome of responsibility and self- discipline.
At times in my life I have wished he had not been so responsible because it made him define love as providing things rather than affection; or, to be more accurate, to equate giving things as being affectionate. And while I appreciate his having taught me the value of self-discipline, I wish sometimes he had been less wedded to seeing life as a series of obligations to be met and toted up and been a little more spontaneous in letting out what enthusiasms I know he has inside himself.
But part of maturing as an adult came when I stopped wishing for such things and accepted what he gave me as love, as the best love he was capable of giving. The picture of I now carry of my father came to me when I was six. We were in Biloxi, Mississippi, and I cut my toe on a piece of glass while swimming in the Gulf. I remember howling in pain -- the cut was deep enough to require stitches. As we drove to the hospital I can remember my mother's soothing "You'll be okay" and my father's strong hands on the steering wheel. At the hospital they prepped me for stitches. As I lay on the table with the doctor sewing me up, my father stood to my right, and while he held my hand he looked down at me and said, "Be like Zorro." Zorro was my hero at that time, and I knew what my father meant about digging into myself for strength. But I also felt the pressure of his hand and knew strength from that as well.
There he is, giving me the party line about independence and self-reliance, but underneath it all he's holding my hand, not leaving me alone to suffer the rigors of too much reality. I honor him by recognizing just how much of his life he gave to me, and how much of his life is in me. Not all fathers have served their children as well as mine has served me. I can only hope that my life has given him moments of pleasure and satisfaction.
Copywriting
Jesse Murabito