A Father's Love

Last week, two young men committed a very heinous deed, setting off multiple bombs killing and maiming hundreds of innocent people, whose only crime apparently was that they happened to be in Boston celebrating one of America’s best traditions, the Boston Marathon. In the days since then, we have all been transfixed by the ongoing saga: the bombing, the aftermath, the chase, the gunfight, the manhunt, and finally the capture.

We have all wondered what could bring someone to commit such senseless slaughter. What kind of monsters would do something like this? We have seen the pictures and read the stories of the victims. We were all moved by the picture of the eight year old victim Martin Richard, holding up the sign that said “No more hurting people - Peace.” The tremendous sadness coming from that image was difficult for any parent to bear. I know I tried to put myself in the place of his father, and I quickly moved my mind away from that image. It was too hard to endure
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But today, I saw the father of the bombers. Those two young men did horrible things, deeds which for many will be unforgivable. But to that man, they weren't monsters, they weren't bombers, they weren't terrorists; they were his sons, his children. How could a parent deal with something like this, to know your own boys did these horrible things?

Some of their words were very hard to listen to. He told his son: "Tell police everything. Everything. Just be honest. Give up. Give up. You have a bright future ahead of you. Come home to Russia.” Earlier, before their capture, they had told him, "Everything is good, Daddy. Everything is very good."

Then I saw him being questioned live on the news. It was obviously hard for him to process these events. He ranged between anger, defiance, denial, regret, and intense sadness. As I’m sure we all would.

This whole situation has been horrible for all involved, and it is hard to feel bad for the bombers. I know some will ridicule the father, and criticize him. They will want him to face reality. They will want his remaining son to endure untold punishment and retribution, and I certainly understand that. But a father’s love is absolute. It does not judge, it does not keep score, it does not criticize. “It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.*” A father’s little boys will always be his little boys, no matter what they have done.

And that is exactly as it should be.

* 1 Corinthians 13:7

33

33...

Days, that is, until I retire. I told myself I wasn't going to count the days, yet somehow I did.

It's been 35 years. Sure, I could have gone longer. After all most people in real jobs go more than 35. But I figure a career is something like a race (as in running). No matter how long it is, you brace for it. When I run a 5 mile race, it seems to take forever to get to 4 miles. But when I run a marathon, 12 miles goes by before I know it. So it’s all relative.

And approaching retirement is like approaching the finish line. A few hundred yards in the middle of a race goes by lickety-split, but I've been in races when I was just 200 yards from the finish, and I didn't know if I was going to make it. It’s like that in my job as well. I only have 33 days, but it seems like an eternity.

Not that I hate teaching. On the contrary, it’s been a great 35 years. I couldn't imagine having done anything else. I still enjoy doing it, once I drag myself out of bed and actually get there, anyway.  Yet just like a race, if somebody moved the finish line during the event, it would be devastating. If I were running a marathon, and  at 25 miles someone told me that I would have to run 28.2 miles rather than 26.2, I would not be pleased. Yeah, that would be tough.

So I’m definitely not complaining about having to work for 35 years. After all, I’m retiring at 57, and most people don’t get that luxury. Still, I don’t want to add a few more years onto it, any more than I’d want to run a few extra miles in a marathon.

Yes, I've really enjoyed this career. But it is definitely time to move on. To what, I'm not exactly sure, which is both exciting and terrifying. But for now, even though I’m ready to leave, I wonder what I’ll miss about it. Because teaching wasn't something I did, it was what I was. And that’s a huge difference.

In 33 days, I’ll no longer be a teacher, or a coach. It will be odd. May 31 will be a joyful day. But I think it will be a little sad as well.  It will be difficult not to say “I’m a teacher.” I've always been secretly proud of saying that.  Somehow, I've always felt that it was a special calling. I still feel that way. And I’m leaving it.

But it’s time. Thirty-three more school days.

Unless we get a fog day!