A Father’s Day to Remember
ComfortSean, standing with bowed head, said, “I lied about where I was. I was with Gil and his girlfriend. I’m sorry.” (Gil was a college-age friend we thought we could trust.)
“Tell them the rest,” Carl said.
Sean whispered, eyes lowered, “I had a beer.” Having finally confessed all, Sean fell into a miserable heap in the corner rocker. Having a beer may not seem like a big deal, but in our house, for a 15-year-old, it was a big deal and Sean knew it.
Shannon and I were expecting Carl to lower the boom in some way, but no one said a word. There seemed nothing more to say, since Sean had admitted his crime right up front, and was obviously remorseful.
Peacefully floating above, I watched the scene below with great interest. I saw “me” in my body struggling to keep from grinning because I was thrilled with the lack of conflict and blame. My prayer was being answered.
Carl stood, sweeping his hand toward the gifts, saying quietly, “I can’t take these. I failed as a father, since you thought you had to lie. I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow – maybe go for a long drive to figure out what I did wrong – but I can’t celebrate Father’s Day.”
Sean’s head shot up. “It wasn’t you. It was me!” he sobbed. “It wasn’t you! It wasn’t you!” Bending over again, head in his hands, he cried convulsively, “It wasn’t you, it was me. . .”
Carl fought to control his tears and grief over Sean’s weakness when tempted. His mouth trembled as he lost the battle. Seeing their tears, Shannon began to cry.
“I hope you can see sin doesn’t hurt just you.” Carl said as he stood up. Turning to look at each of us in turn, he said, “It hurts all of us. You’re crying. I’m crying. Shannon’s crying. Your mother’s crying. . . on the inside,” he added as he noticed my dry eyes.