Seasons of Fatherhood

A few days ago, I heard that song that says, “Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future.” Boy, does it ever. In an hour or so, my wife will be sitting down with our future daughter-in-law and my son’s future mother-in-law to plan a wedding shower. And in less than four months, my oldest boy will move out and start the lifelong work of building a household.

I’m gonna miss his presence. Most nights before bed, I walk the hallway and check each room, making sure my kids are home: sleeping, reading, or just winding down. Soon I’ll look in that room and he won’t be there. That thought hits harder than I expected. I want to enjoy him a little longer. I suspect it’ll always feel that way.

Seasons turn. A wise man learns to love them all.
Here in the Midwest, fall’s taking hold... plenty of light still, leaves turning, hoodie weather. You can walk without sweating or shivering. Soon it’ll slip into winter: gray and cold, but full of family, holidays, and lately, a good bit of snow.

I love walking the woods after a heavy snow at midnight. The trees stand bare, the moonlight catches the drifts, and everything glows. It’s quiet, bright, and holy. The crack of the woodstove, sledding, and hot cocoa redeem the short days.

Spring in Ohio starts like an old truck—lots of sputtering and false starts. But once it catches, the dead burst with life. Days stretch out. The rain can drown you, but the thunderstorms make up for it, lightning dancing across the sky. The hens start laying again. Chicks hatch. Across the road, farmers ready their fields.

Then comes summer: long, hot days, barbecue smoke, and the steady hum of crickets. Tom Petty on the mower. Stargazing. Soaking at the pool. Each season brings its gifts and its grind. Fall’s my busiest. By February, I’m sick of the dark. Spring turns my yard into a swamp. By August, the heat’s miserable. But by the end of each, I’m ready for the next.

Some seasons repeat.

Each child brings new ones, tiny micro-seasons. They learn words and steps, tastes and tempers. They grow from infant to toddler, child to adult. You blink, and the room you once checked for monsters now holds boxes packed for marriage.

But some seasons only come once. You’re only a child once. Your children are only children once. There’s the thrill of early marriage, the strain of midlife, the calm of later years. Then comes the final one, the end of your time on earth.

I’ve seen those interviews with old folks asked about regrets. The answers don’t change much: wish they’d taken more chances, spent more time with family, married the one that got away. Nobody gets through life without regrets. But the edge dulls when you quit fighting the season God’s given you and just live in it.

I enjoyed being single. I enjoyed being married. I enjoyed being married without kids. I love being married with them. And now I’m learning to love this new one: being the father of a man beginning the same road I started more than twenty years ago.

Hudson’s presence won’t fill that room anymore. It’ll fill his home. I’ll walk through his door and see the life he’s building with Grace. Lord willing, I’ll hold his children one day and watch him take on the adventure of fatherhood.

Seasons come and go. You can’t stop them. In the words of Steven Delopoulos, “You can come around, but never stay.” There are no time machines, just sweet memories made by men who learn to stay awhile.

Painting: Christopher Leeper