Father’s Day has always been a difficult day for me.
I lost my father in 1985… and the man who stepped in and helped raise me only three years later.
So when I see little boys & young men sitting beside their fathers in church, I notice.
When I see men my age spending Father’s Day with their dads, I notice.
When I see fathers and sons fishing together, working together, or simply sharing life together, I notice.
And if I’m being honest, there have been times when Father’s Day brought more sadness than celebration.
But Saturday, I spent several hours with my son, now 18.
We talked about everything and nothing.
Life. Family. Work. Memories. The future.
As I drove home, a line from an old song kept replaying in my mind:
“It may have a new perspective, on a different day.”
Maybe that’s what growing older does.
It doesn’t erase the losses.
It doesn’t give back the years.
But it helps you see the story differently.
Yesterday, I found myself looking at three photographs.
My father.
The man who helped raise me.
And my son.
For the first time, I wasn’t focused on what had been lost.
I was focused on what had been passed down.
The legacy of two very different men lives on in me.
And part of their legacy—combined with mine—lives on in my son.
Father’s Day still carries a measure of sadness.
I suspect it always will.
But today, it carries gratitude too.
And that’s a different perspective than I had on another day.
