Honoring Dads: Warts and All

(Imperfection, Vortexia) – Most men are deserving of the honor due them as fathers, but doing so is sometimes easier said than done. Problems can arise when mothers of children are in conflict with the father, or parents blow trivial problems in their relationship out of proportion. I know, because it’s almost Father’s Day and I am just now reconciling my emotions with my love for my husband.

It began with the weather.

I have very few pet peeves, just a couple actually, and I can honestly say I have developed patience for them over the years. But, when it comes to negativity, all bets are off. Whining, belly-aching, call it what you will, being in the company of naysayers is torture for me.

I’m not talking about the occasional venting session with close friends; if it’s of extremely short duration and has a clear beginning and end with some sort of resolution. That, I can handle. Nor am I referring to a one-time open and honest discussion with someone borne of professional or relational necessity. I’m speaking of being immersed in a culture of chronic complaining. It ignites my fight-or-flight hormones. My blood pressure rises. I feel chained, forced to drink poison while listening to a chorus of nails on a chalkboard, all at the same time.

I blame part of this aversion on my stoic Midwest childhood. My parents, farmers’ stock who soldiered their way through the Depression, never griped and I wasn’t allowed to either. If I complained about being bored, I found myself scrubbing floors and cleaning toilets. If I was caught saying something nasty about someone, I was subjected to a lecture on not saying anything if I couldn’t say something good about someone. If I dared to grumble about food served to me I was summarily banished to bed with an empty stomach. After all, beggars can’t be choosy; grin and bear it.

My husband, however, had an entirely different childhood. Cloaked in humor and exacerbated by perfectionism, complaining was elevated to an art-form in his home. Because his highly cynical father never forgot the victimization he suffered during the Depression, my husband’s world-view was colored by would-have’s, should-have’s and if-only’s. The result often manifested in the grass looking greener on the other side of the fence.

I and my husband – definitely my “soulmate” if there is such a thing -- share many things in common; faith, family, friends, and a long, fulfilling, exciting history together. All things considered, we are a perfect fit except for one – make that two or three – things. He is a pessimist (he would use the word “realist”) and I am an optimist (he would use the word fantasist). He loves to swim and relax in the sun. The sun is not my friend and I don’t swim. He is an engineer who isn’t passionate about reading or writing. I am a bookworm; writing is my profession.

Are we the only couple who wrestle with these issues?

Our differences got out of control a few months ago when Oregon experienced one of its worst springs in history. Northwest winters are cloudy, rainy and cool (as opposed to cloudy, snowy and freezing in the other areas of the country, I remind my husband), but springtime is typically a mix of lessening showers, increasing warmth, and fabulous rainbows. Summers in Oregon are paradisiacal; generally dry and hot with blessedly cool evenings. This spring, however, consisted of nearly three straight months of unseasonably cool temperatures, record-breaking rains, and leaden skies. Newbie Oregonians, particularly California transplants who are spoiled by some of the most perfect weather in the entire world, made like the Israelites in the desert, crying that they wanted to go back to “Egypt” -- wherever that might be.

My husband complained incessantly. I grew to dread the start of each new day, not because of the weather, but because I knew – and this is no exaggeration – that I would be subjected to an endless litany of meteorological facts and statistics comparing Oregon’s weather to Hawaii, and countless threats of selling our house and moving thousands of miles away from our children just to have sunshine in the wintertime. All of this whining was accompanied with theatrical sighs and unhealthy doses of feigned morosity. I turned into a shrew.

It became a great source of contention between us.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate a sunny day as much as the next guy. Who hasn’t dreamed of vacationing in Hawaii or the Caribbean in the dead of winter? But the fact is, weather doesn’t dictate my state of mind or control my emotions. When I “see” Oregon, I don’t see rain. I see beautiful swirling fogs, myriad hues of green, dense primeval forests, magnificent mountains and a spectacular coastline. Apparently, that makes me a freak. Most Americans evidently live their lives tethered to the sun. Since there are few countries on earth where citizens have the luxury of arm-chair quarterbacking situations they have absolutely no control over, I fear it might be true that I am the “odd man” out.

Still, I doubt Dalits in Calcutta obsess over how many cloudy days they have in a year, just as I’m sure the majority of Africans don’t entertain relocating to a place where they will be able to enjoy more sunshine. Any day they’re alive is a beautiful day to them.

We are incredibly blessed and not just a little bit spoiled.

For me (and my husband actually came up with this motto when we moved here) Oregon is our “Promised Land.” Undeniably, God Himself led us here like Abraham and Sarah, even though we weren’t aware of it at the time. This is where I rededicated my life to Christ, became a mother, raised my children and built a home. And that is the key, at least for me. This is my home. It’s not just four walls and a roof that can be bought and sold on a whim. God pointed to this place on the map, and “Pow!” in went my stake. To date, He has not directed us anywhere else.

The outcome of all this is…you ask? Well, we didn’t kill each other and we’re still happily married. Our sparring is part of the Tango that is our dance. It’s mid-June and after announcing that Oregon experienced the wettest June in it’s history already, the weatherman is promising warmer, sunnier days. We’ve had a few intermittent ones already; enough to placate my husband…for now.

The mountain between us shrunk back down into a mole hill, and with Father’s Day looming, I am reminded of just how good and wonderful my husband is, how much he is loved by his children, and how faithful, hardworking and steady he is. It's a good thing, Father's Day. If we lay all the small stuff aside and focus on the man who is the father, we can regain our perspective.

At least I learned something: Mountains are not insurmountable.