By Drew Gai
Becoming a father didn’t spontaneously make me a better Christian, but it has made it harder to be such a bad one.
Before I had my boys (20 months and 2 months at the time of this writing), it was easier to believe that God didn’t care about me much. I could go quite a while thinking that perhaps God wasn’t good and that I ought not think about him lest I feel the pain of his distance.
These periods of apathy might be arrested by a powerful moment in Mass, a good friend breaking through the stoniness of my heart with a loving gesture, or some other God-esque happening that placed me back on the path. I’m sure God was always delighted in giving these redirections because he gave me plenty.
However, their irregularity allowed me to wander deep into the thicket of my own silly plans and ideas, and before long, I could find myself entirely stuck in despair, resenting God and feeling restless.
But then came my sons, and it became a bit harder to stray.
When my oldest looks up at me with tears in his eyes and cries out in anguish, “Dada!”, my heart is pierced.
When I see my youngest smile his first non-gas-induced smile, the words “This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased” resonate in their simple perfection.
My boys are unquestionably the coolest thing I have ever seen, and I love them so much. I am tied to them by a bond that feels absolutely unbreakable, and to forsake them would be to tear myself in half. If they were to suffer greatly or die, I would be crucified.
In short, God has made me a father, and if I truly believe that God is my Father, then running away from him seems a lot more foolish than it did before.
If God looks at me like I look at my kids, then he’s the kind of person I’d like to get to know better.
If God looks at me with infinitely more love than I look at my kids with, then I’d like to spend eternity with him, thank you very much.
In fact, I’d like to live right here and now in a way that expresses my gratitude and helps me believe in God's love for my neighbor and me. I’d like to stay right on the path, and I want my Father to hold my little hand. I know personally how tender that touch must be to him.
I’d like to, but of course, I tend not to.
My proclivity towards waywardness is still remarkably strong. For some reason, just like my little toddler, I love to break free from my Father’s grasp and discover yet again that those thorns do indeed hurt when I grab them.
But now, I feel more inclined to turn back when I hear the Father’s voice calling my name. I can and do still heedlessly plod along, but remaining on the path feels like the more sensible option.
After all, I’m bringing these two boys along with me, and I wouldn’t want them to get all scraped up.
