My Father
I wrote this for my father on Sunday.
I want to tell you a story.
It’s about a boy who, more than anything, wanted to be a writer. But deeper than that, it’s about the man who gave him dreams.
My father is a gentle man but a firm believer in discipline and he balanced the two well, though it must have been difficult at times. We children certainly didn’t make it easy. We still don’t. He instilled in us a desire for something greater and the thought that we can conquer the world. And for that, I love him.
I’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. But I never thought I was talented or dedicated enough to do much of anything. My father, however, had two life-shaping rules and God bless him for pounding them into my head (figuratively and literally).
The first rule involved the word “can’t”. It doesn’t exist in his vocabulary and he’s tried his best to obliterate it from ours. Protests of our inadequacy fell onto deaf ears: he absolutely refused to not believe in his children. My heart swells remembering his words of inspiration.
Once you say you “can’t” do something, your mind already starts building mental blocks, so much so, that you’ll discourage yourself, and you’ll refuse to even try. In other words, you’ve given up before you’ve even made your attempt. That, to my father, was a greater sin than failure. I’ve tried to carry those words with me and have even spread them when a friend seemed to be flagging in strength. There are many who owe him a debt of gratitude without ever having known him.
My father’s second rule was no less important and goes hand in hand with the first: “Never limit yourself.” This he takes very seriously. It is a religion to him, as it should be to all. The only one who can ever hold you back is yourself. And that’s exactly what you do when you say the word “can’t”.
Hand in hand.
As a child, I was interested in many career options and my father, patient as always, took the time to nurture each one.
If I told him I wanted to study the stars, he would come home the next day with an encyclopedia of the universe, that I absolutely loved.
If I casually mentioned that I wanted to create robots, my father would bring home a guide to building machines and a set of tools.
When I told my father I wanted to write, it was he that gave me the most useful piece of advice I’ve ever gotten. He smiled at me and told me:
“Then write.”
And, well, here we are.
Thank you, Dad, for giving me dreams, for taking away my doubt and for never letting me limit myself.
I Love You,
Michael
