Even More a Father

On Stewardship

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Forgive me if I wax poetic and a bit theological this week. I'm feeling, once again, quite reflective. I started my blog almost three years ago. Not long after I started it, I wrote Kids 3.0 after my wife and I had our third kid. At the time, I made a web3 joke. I don't have a 4.0 joke, so all I can say is my wife and I welcomed our fourth kid to the family this week!

I was reflecting on some of the parenting advice I've gotten over the years and I still think one of the things that stuck with me the most came from a religious leader I had years ago. He told me that fatherhood can be summed up by a Robert Frost poem called "The Pasture":

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

So much of my life is a rush. I'm rushing towards a deal, or a candidate, or a story. But parenting is just about anything other than rushing. This poem always reminds me that parenting isn't just about getting through life, but bringing them along for the experience.

The most difficult part of being a parent is being afraid that you don't have enough to give to both live your life and bring your kids along. I think thats often what stops people from having kids, or pushes them to delay it. But the reality is that so much of life is in the giving, not in the getting.

I've written before about how everyone is an "allocator" of something. Whether thats time, money, attention, love, or some other finite thing. Another word for allocator that I see most often in a gospel context is "steward." The things we're allocating represent a responsibility we have; a stewardship.

I recently saw The Iron Claw for the first time and I gotta say; I don't know what I expected about the wrestling movie, but it wasn't a heart-wrenching portrayal of family from the star of High School Musical. But that's what I got. Spoiler alert for the movie, so... I don't know. Stop reading now I guess if you don't want to ruin it.

The movie is about a family where, at least among the brothers, I completely buy the love they have for each other. After some of the most heart-breaking tragedies, Zach Effron is the only brother that's left in the family. His sons come up to him seeing him crying, and ask him what's wrong. His response wrenched my heart open:

"I used to be a brother... and now I'm not."

And I pondered for a long time why that impacted me so much. The love he had for his brothers felt so genuine. And the love he has for his sons wasn't lessened by his feelings for his brothers, nor did he sacrifice his love as a father on the alter of grief for his brothers. He was able to exist across multiple stewardships; as a son, a brother, and a father.

But to think that his role as a brother was over? That doesn't sit right with me. And that comes from a key part of my religion. A key tenant of my faith is: families are forever. That's the ball game. In my piece a few week ago reflecting on the last decade of my life, I expressed that same sentiment:

"As I look at my peers, whether people I grew up with or got to know later in life, not everyone sees those same things as concrete. They've changed what they believe about God or family. Changed religions, gotten divorced. They might have drastically changed careers or personalities. And don't get me wrong, change is always on the road map. But I don't intend to change any of those things about myself. I want to stay a husband. I want to stay a father. I want to stay a Christian."

So this week, I expanded my stewardship. I am responsible for myself. I am responsible for my relationship with myself. And I am responsible with the relationships I have with each of my children — Dax, Jed, Eve, and the newly arrived Ace.

In everything we do, I think we would be better served by acknowledging the responsibility we have. Any commitment we make, any project we undertake, any investment we make, any relationship we have — it's a stewardship. We're allocating something to those things. And I think, too often, people equate their lives with the outputs. "What do I get out of this?" It’s unfortunate. Very rarely do we stop enough to say "what do I have the opportunity to give?" And, more importantly, what do I get to become as a result of that giving?

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