Those Not-So-Still Small Voices

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by Thom Hunter

While growing up, I had no father at home. So my goal when I grew up was to be a daddy. Not just a father — ”I had a father somewhere. I didn’t have a daddy.

The number one responsibility of a daddy, I told myself, is to “be there.” Not to miss the events, momentous and miniature, that bind father to son. All my life I cataloged events I would have share with my daddy. “Someday,” I vowed, “I’ll enjoy these with my children.”

Somedays usually arrive when we are least prepared — ”bogged down in work, over scheduled and fatigued. In the midst of making to-do lists, I hear a small voice zeroing in, “You will be there, won’t you, Daddy?”

“Of course,” I answer, clearing my throat. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The year was 1984, the busiest of my adult life. The year after the birth of our fourth son. The year of my firstborn’s first-grade picnic. I almost did miss the picnic, drowning in my deadlines. But I fled from the office just in time and sped to the park.

Zachary sat hunched over in the grass near the picnic table. The sun beat down on his brown neck poking out of his T-shirt. He was dirty from the playground, scraped on both elbows, and sweaty. His socks hung limply over the top of once white tennis shoes. He sat alone surrounded by at least 75 seven-year-olds.

Zach’s eyes were following something intently as it journeyed through the tall grass. It was a goldish, shiny bug. When the fleeing creature would almost get beyond his reach, he would throw out a finger roadblock.

“Oh good,” he said, as I sat down beside him. “I was afraid you wouldn’t get here before the gold bug got away. Look.”

He said “before” the gold but got away, I thought. Zach had never imagined that I might not show up, that I might have forgotten the Washington School picnic. It was a once-only moment in his life.

Surrounded by moms, Zachary and I ate our sandwiches, sitting in the grass together, my legs cramping, my knee joints stiffening. He pointed out various kids and told me their names. He introduced me to Rachel, whom he chases and who chases him. Every now and then a child would drift by and ask Zach in hushed tones, “Is that your dad?”

Each time I wanted to lose 40 pounds on the spot, change into a sporty tennis outfit and flex my muscles to give Zach something to be proud of. But Zach looked right at me, just as I was, and beamed. “He sure is.”

Zach shared his Chiclets with me. He had a hard time believing I chewed Chiclets way back when I was seven.

“Did you share them with your dad?” he asked. I couldn’t answer, so I changed the subject.
That evening, after we both got home, I lifted Zachary up to look into the bird’s nest on the front porch. I was amazed at how heavy a seven-year-old is.

He peeked inside the nest. There were no eggs yet, but some grass and feathers waiting.

“Did your dad ever lift you up to see inside a bird’s nest?” he asked. Once again, I couldn’t answer. Later, in his room, decorated with the heroes and dreams of his young life, I tucked him in for the night. He lay on his stomach, and I rubbed his back until his eyes closed. Only when I got to the door did I find out he was just pretending to sleep, as he shouted out, “Goodnight, Daddy!”

Over the years, I have stashed away a valuable collection of “being there’s.” I share them often with my children, pulling them out when doubts appear, using them to close gaps and heal hurts. There is great power in “remember when’s,” but you can use them only if you have them.

Someday Zachary’s son or daughter will ask him, “Did your daddy ever lift you up to see inside a bird’s nest?”

I’m glad he will have an answer.