Among my young memories are arm-wrestling matches with my father. I’d say somewhere between first and fifth grade we would occasionally arm-wrestle at the kitchen table. Whether I’m accurately remembering the exact nature of these playful activities I will never know. Like many old recollections, they seem to be in glimpses in our mind’s eye and since this was not a one-time arm-wrestling contest, the number of variations in my mind remains!
I can recall him teaching me the rules – that elbows could not leave the table and one couldn’t exert pressure until after the on-your-mark-get-set-GO!
In my mind’s eye, once I learned the rules, I feel like he led me to believe he was putting up a good fight with all his strength. Back and forth….I almost had his arm down on the table when he would re-surge and almost have my little arm down!
I have some images of him putting my arm down quickly (but gently of course) and smiling and laughing and saying that I was a weakling! He would tell me to make a muscle and we would talk about and observe our arm muscles.
As an only child and especially because of my mother’s condition, I was often bored and stayed close to my dad when he was home, both inside and outside, seeking interaction and assisting in all the household chores he performed, since my mother didn’t do anything normal.
Perhaps, my Daddy had first put my arm down to establish that he was in fact, much stronger. And then, perhaps he began to allow me to believe I was gaining some strength in these matches with a strong man. At some point, probably early middle school, we were in fact having (at least what I perceived at the time) actual arm wrestling matches where it appeared he was using his full strength and I held my own.
I have a vague memory of a triumph at an older age, in one such match. Of course, I’m thinking that my father’s first heart attack in March of 1976 when I was in seventh grade, put a clear ending to my wanting to arm-wrestle with him. After that, I was well-aware of his age, heart condition and more and began assuming running the lawn mower, shoveling heavy snow and other chores as much as possible.
My Daddy’s fathering methods seemed to be passive but ever-present, as I recall and analyze all these many years later. Whatever it is that he did in my life and situation, though certainly not perfect nor what other men might have done with my mother, he was amazing.
Those who knew what went on in our home with my mother, unanimously call him a saint.
St. Rodney!
Fathers come in all shapes and sizes with all different personalities, values and belief systems, strengths and weaknesses and interpersonal skills. What is it that makes a good father, and what is the measure or fruit of having had a good father?
I think it is easy to identify, in some cases, instances of bad fathering or absence of a father, and the resulting effects. But that also can be hard to sort out.
For me, I think my father influenced me (for the good) far more than my mother. While I did many things with my father that some might say would have made me somewhat of a tomboy, I have never identified myself as such, or anything other than a girl/female/woman.
I have identified myself as a complicated woman. We are all complicated creatures with varying amounts of what are typically considered male and female traits. And that is OK. God made us in His image and seems to possess within Himself the spectrum of traits and emotions.
I must wonder what it was that my father did in terms of identity-building that produced a daughter who plants flowers, use hammers and power tools, holds her own in a conversation with men on hunting and war history, knows what a carburetor is, does carpentry and cooks/bakes and crimps pie edges. And more. (All of these things listed relate in some way to recollections with my father).
My father was approachable and long-suffering. While he often didn’t directly intervene, I always had a sense of his presence, protection and availability. I think his fathering style, as with most of us, translates into how we view God the Father.
For the most part, I have not had any deep struggles with God being available, caring, comforting and present. A safe refuge in whom I can come and go at will and as needed, as I explore and continue to explore this world, life, myself and others. While there can be blockages at times, there is not a long-standing distance in my feelings of connection and His oversight and help, when I am in need.
And for this, I am grateful in part to many people and things about my life, but in particular, my father, Rodney LaTaine Slifer.
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