Family

Conventional wisdom these days seems to quietly concede that dads are not all that necessary anymore. Just watch a sitcom. One mom (or two) is sufficient for a healthy upbringing. Dads may be great, but are most certainly dispensable.

Due to the mercies of God, dads are sometimes unnecessary. Kids who grow up without a father in the home can develop into strong, successful people. Having said that, principles should not be constructed from exceptional cases. Broadly speaking, kids prosper uniquely when they are afforded the privilege of growing up under the influence of an involved, loving father who acts like a man.

For a somewhat distinct set of reasons, children equally need moms. I’m not denying overlap between the two subsets; nor am I suggesting all dads must fit a precast mold. But qualifiers aside, engaged fathers bequeath unique benefits to the nurture of healthy, well-rounded children. And it’s okay to say so now and then.

Why do kids need dads? The question could be answered from any number of angles—physiological, philosophical, sociological, theological, etc. Permit here a less formal response. Why do kids need dads? Bear hugs. Wrestling matches in the living room. Launching toddlers into the air and catching them on their way down—even if only by one limb. Responding triumphantly to the bloodied knee of a quivering-lipped munchkin looking for pity: “Way to go, kid-o, nice work!” Discussing what’s under the hood of a car and why it matters. Tackle football in the back yard. Demonstrating the fine art of mowing the lawn and cleaning out the garage. Initiating, then providing the calming presence on a scary amusement park ride. Watching a ball game and analyzing it afterwards. Playing with knives. Demonstrating a love for sweaty, dirty work. Telling a kid pointedly: “Get over it,” or “No, you can’t do that.” No monkey-business enforcement of consequences for children who break rules. Teaching the craft of using power tools, raking the lawn, changing a tire, and building a bike ramp. Pedagogy on shaving and tying a tie. Leading hunting, fishing, and camping trips, and adventurous hikes in nature. Teaching teenagers to park the car in the garage. Teaching teens to take responsibility when parking the car in the garage doesn’t go so well. Gruff warnings to the young man showing interest in your daughter. Gruffer words when warding off sleaze balls interested in the same daughter. Enlightening your daughter to the reality that what she sees as a cute outfit strikes guys differently. Warning sons about the destructive powers of pornography. Handling failure and trials with a steady spirit and steely resolve. Showing confidence and faith in God during tough times. Demonstrating the grace and strength of saying, “I was wrong, please forgive me” and “I love you.” Showing appropriate affection to the kids’ mother. Protecting and honoring that same woman before their eyes with persistent fidelity. Bequeathing to the kids the stabilizing roots of family culture, of faith in God, of hope and love.

It was one of those moments when I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I opted to just shrink lower into our second-row pew, stifle my giggles, and hold my seven year-old son close, thanking God for him and all his glorious honesty.

If you are a regular reader, you know that my husband pastors a rural church; and while we do our best to keep our kids out of the fishbowl, we do expect them to participate in the full-scope of congregational life. Including our mid-week service. This isn’t usually a problem, but like all of us, there are those days when they’d rather stay home. Perhaps they’re tired, busy doing other things, or in the case of my seven-year-old son, simply find Legos more interesting than having to sit still for an hour.

On this particular Wednesday night, we had dealt with the standard objections over dinner, and by 7:05, everyone was safely ensconced in our normal pew with our heads bowed as one of the deacons opened the service with prayer as only a deacon from a rural Baptist church can. About half way through, he asked God to touch the hearts of “those who could have come tonight but chose not to.”

Not missing a beat, my son piped up, “Well, I didn’t want to come, but I HAD to.”

I started home educating my oldest son when he was in first grade. Unhappy with the private school he was attending, and a bit concerned about the condition of the public schools in the area, my husband and I decided to try homeschooling.

I was working for a large mortgage bank in the legal department, but I had attended college in order to become a teacher. The idea of teaching my own child sounded like bliss. So we went for it.

In these last 20 years, I have heard the same objections to homeschooling again and again. They have been addressed over and over, in newspapers, magazines, by educational establishments and research projects, but that doesn’t stop people from asking as if they are the first person on earth to imagine them.

Moderndaychris is a blogger, and a junior at Gettysburg College, studying American Studies, Music, and Education, with many exciting opportunities in his future. To that I say, “Congrats, and go for it!”

He is again asking questions, often in the form of accusations, at this post “The Home School vs The Public School.” So I thought I’d answer a few of them.

First, I want to say that I do not view public education and home education as opposites or adversaries. They are both legitimate options for parents. Private education is also in the mix as a valid choice when deciding where their child will receive academic instruction.

One Friday night in November found me and my family (along with several dozen other folks) sitting in Miss Kay’s proper parlor singing at the top of our lungs.

We almost missed it. Like the classic “big picture” person that I am, I had mixed up my dates, double-booked house guests, and created the very distinct possibility that we would be absent from a mainstay of the church’s yearly calendar. File this one under “How Not to Be a Good Pastor’s Wife.”

Fortunately we didn’t miss it. A little rearranging and a couple blushing conversations later, we ended up at Miss Kay’s front door promptly at 7:00. (Okay, not promptly… but we did get there.) The evening began like any other social gathering—food and small talk—but then about forty minutes in, something happened. A whisper spread through the house and with the enthusiasm of children, this eclectic group aged 17 months to 77 years assembled themselves in the front parlor (yes, I do mean parlor). Out came the guitars; next a mandolin; and before you knew it, someone was seated at the piano, running gospel scales up and down.

Then it began.