Surrogate Dads

male dadI tip my hat to all you surrogate dads out there doing the hard work of building up boys and girl, tweens, teens, and young and older adults living without fathers.

You might be doing your “parenting” at the gym, or in the kitchen, or on the playground, or around the church, and in any other number of unnamed areas. We see you!

You do the things you do without looking for praise, and you do it day in and day out, to the strengthening of our youth.

martial arts

I’m not sure you know how important you are in the scope of things, but let me tell you what I think: You Rock!

Blood does not make you a father, anymore than sitting in a garage makes you a car.  To be a dad you must listen, care, touch, love, support, encourage, and SPEND TIME WITH YOUR KIDS.

qualitytime

That these children were not conceived from the juice of your loins matters little to them, or me.  What matters to a kid without a dad is that somewhere, somehow, over and over again, someone is reaching out to them and making them feel special.

Surrogacy is often attributed to women, but today I salute the men who are out there on the line, doing the hard work of parenting and finding it rewarding.  Please know, you matter!!!

You really, really, really matter! 

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The Cornfield

Sex almost never clicks the ticket for me. Don’t get me wrong. I love touch, but no act motivated by the need to “get ‘er done” has ever been able to claim my heart. That’s why I prefer that slow hand and lack of urgency that comes from a mature mate.  Maybe it’s the same for you?

Tell me I’m not alone in this.

Sex for sex’s sake I can take, but more often leave.
Sex born of love and commitment, give me that stuff every time, every day, in every way!

As an homage to loyalty and love, and maybe a little bit of the healing that comes of loving the right way, I offer today’s post.

THE CORNFIELD

A cornfield is where he laid her down. Where he moved her hair so that he could see every telltale sign of recognition that passed between them.  A cornfield is where he chased away reluctance. It’s where tears covered his cheeks and she found her voice; voice the Builder’d given; sound encased in balm. This time the healing was for him, but her too.

As the winds of northeastern Pennsylvania pushed seed over remnants hung on clothes line, newly washed jeans and t-shirts, swaying back, then forth, then back again, so did he match their rhythm.

She closed her eyes. She wanted to be fully aware in this moment; fully conscious of what was happening to him, fully synced to his movements and emotions. She had one chance and one chance only to absorb the sorrow that had left him blistered in the past. One chance to restore wholeness. One chance to allow the miracle to flow through her.

He laid full upon her chest now, spent. He’d given everything he had to her, and she’d received it as a precious gift returned in kind, the treasure of authenticity and complete trust that he’d forgotten he had; the pearl of great price he thought he’d never have again.