Curious, isn't it—how little fathers appear in books and essays about family life and its troubles. Writers focus almost entirely on mothers. Fathers barely register in the discussions of those who work with families—doctors, psychologists, educators, social workers, journalists, and yes, priests and church leaders. Their attention, too, turns mainly toward women.
Even Ombre e Luci, which calls itself a Christian magazine for families and friends of people with disabilities, has been no exception. It has written about loneliness, hope tested to the breaking point, the problem of vacations, welcoming a "different" child into the family. It has addressed the struggles of a child with Down syndrome or psychosis, the need to be strong "for them," the experiences of siblings, residential group homes, people "sealed in darkness and silence." But not until the end of its sixth year did the magazine finally notice that disabled children have fathers. I don't mean this as criticism—I say it with a smile. I am a father, and I have learned to accept being overlooked.
My daughter, who—like any woman—saw clearly, had her own reasonable way of explaining this peculiar mystery.
Throughout her life, Maria Francesca showed the most serene indifference to the world and its laws. So much so that even if she noticed them, she seemed unconvinced of the necessity to eat in order to survive, skeptical about the need to sleep, doubtful about the point of growing and developing once you were born. So she observed these requirements with cautious prudence—though this alarmed and worried her parents. Faced with a society that talks far too much and moves about excessively using every tool modern technology provides, she wisely chose silence. As for moving about, she always preferred to do so with uncommon care, only after careful thought about whether it was truly worth the effort.
Yet with her quiet gray-blue eyes, from her place of observation—at home and away—she noticed everything and everyone. She thought about what she saw. When we were alone and she nestled against my chest, her golden-brown head resting on my cheek, she communicated her observations to me in silence and shared her thoughts on how things stood.
"It's natural," she would tell me then, "that the mother should be the center of everyone's attention when things go well and when they seem to go wrong. The mother carried her child: for nine long months she felt him grow—flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood—inside her. For nine long months she spoke to him in silence, the way we're speaking now. She felt him move within her: at first gently, shyly, then stronger and stronger, with growing confidence. In those nine long months, she grew accustomed to changing her whole way of life for him, to putting her own needs second, to giving up her tastes (imagine: eating without salt!), to setting aside her small habits, like smoking.
"It is during this period that a mysterious, ineffable bond is formed. It finds its seal in the miraculous moment of birth, and it binds the mother to her child forever."
"True enough," I reflect silently, "the father remains shut out of this silent, affectionate bond made of flesh and blood, of sacrifice and love, of worry and waiting." But Maria Francesca interrupts my thoughts before they can go further:
"That's not quite right. At least in part, the father takes part in it," she says, "through how deep and genuine his affection is and his understanding with the mother of his child. He loves her: so he trusts her and accepts and loves the child as his own from the very first moment. Through her, he follows with anxiety and pride the silent and burgeoning bloom of new life in her womb. For love of her, he accepts the limits and difficulties of the changed family situation. For love of her, despite the clumsiness natural to men, the father is able to prepare a welcoming nest for a stranger, to adjust to his cumbersome presence, to care for him, to love him. Yes, it's right that the mother always comes first."
She falls quiet for a moment, then concludes: "In a family the father must always be present, but he should not stand out. His role is to protect, to cover, to sustain; to observe, to try to understand and advise, to repair what breaks. To listen even when he doesn't feel like it. It is the mother's love that binds the father to his child. But sometimes it is the father's love that reconciles the mother to her own son."
"Now we're getting into deep philosophy!" I say to myself.
She simply looks up at me, out of the corner of her eye. She must think me not very sharp. With her finger in her mouth, she continues quietly: "When the child is born and is…" —she hesitates a moment, as if searching for the right word—"different, the mother feels it with her whole body, her whole heart, her whole mind. She takes it personally. She finds herself responsible—unable to 'make' a child like all the others. She feels she has failed at the very task for which she herself—she knows it, even if she denies it—was sent into the world. She feels violated in her nature, diminished in her person, betrayed in her love for the child she so faithfully carried and nourished for nine months, mocked by God, who at that moment seems to her neither good nor providential. Deep inside, she always feels—she alone—somehow responsible for her child's 'difference,' even when she says the opposite."
"So the mother closes in on herself and her sorrow, locks her heart and soul to everyone, including her husband—the father of her child. Silent and hardened in her suffering, she is savage in defending that 'different' child she rejects and to whom she feels bound all the same. She wraps herself in ice and pushes away every tender gesture her husband offers, unable to accept or understand it."
Love is not serving yourself. Love is reaching toward the one you love, beyond reason and sense and use, giving them the help they need to keep their wings spread—despite everything—in the sky of hope and peace."
Love is not serving yourself. Love is reaching toward the one you love, beyond reason and sense and use, giving them the help they need to keep their wings spread—despite everything—in the sky of hope and peace."This is when the father must step fully into his role. The father who has known his child only from birth; who never spoke with him before; who did not carry him in his body, did not nourish him with his blood, but loved him as the fruit of his love, dreamed of him as a companion in work and play, as a true friend with whom to open his heart, as the fulfillment of what the father himself wanted to be. The father, wounded and grieving too, must have the courage to open his arms to this child, must have the strength to surrender his own hopes. The father, especially when tired, discouraged, beaten down, needs so much himself—yet he must find the strength to go without the warmth and closeness of his wife. He must accept, once again, staying in the background."
"Love is not serving yourself. Love is reaching toward the one you love, beyond reason and sense and use, giving them the help they need to keep their wings spread—despite everything—in the sky of hope and peace."
"So the father holds back his tears: he has no time to cry. He smiles at the mother to bring back her smile. He smiles at the 'different' child and holds him close, so he knows he has come home and is loved. He takes him in his arms to show the mother he is grateful. He surrounds him with care and affection, knowing that anyone born of a man's and a woman's flesh and blood is human, even if he does not seem to be. He loves him, and he wants to remove all doubt from the mother's mind. He wants her to understand that for him this child has incalculable, unique worth: because he is a child of God, and he has an immortal destiny. Because Jesus was born, suffered, died and rose again for him too."
"The father leaves exhaustion at the door when he comes home from work. He does not look for a little peace or quiet for himself. This is not the time to be tired. He must give the mother time to rest and recover, not add to her burdens. So he speaks calmly to her about his day and helps her while she cares for the child. He lends a hand with the housework, takes care of the other children if there are any. If he can, he takes her out. He gets up at night when the baby cries: he watches over the child for her, when the child won't sleep."
"The father sets aside all discouragement and doubt. You cannot despair when you accompany your wife and your 'different' child through that endless, painful pilgrimage from one doctor's office to another. There is no room for it, because you must fight back against frustration and helplessness, against bitterness, pain, and the urge to rebel that threatens to overwhelm the mother. She is trapped in what feels like a continuous, humiliating, ever-renewed trial of her worth. The father must be brave. He must always find the right words so she doesn't feel alone, so he can give her the security and strength to keep going, to face reality and accept it as her own—simply, with trust."
"Whoever trusts shows faith. Whoever trusts shows hope. Whoever trusts shows love."
"This is what the mother needs. This is what the 'different' child needs."
"How many know, fathers, about the pain and sorrow, the loneliness you have had to bear? How many know about your soundless sobs, your silent tears, the desolation of your souls facing a future that seems to hold no hope? How many have measured the effort it took to stop your soul from rebelling, to resist the temptation to abandon everything and give up the fight, to push aside the dread that comes when you think of your child's future and his mother's? Fathers don't care that people know these things. Fathers are generally very private about their feelings. They don't think it matters if anyone speaks of them, they don't put themselves on display. And rarely, they only do it when they simply cannot bear it anymore."
"For fathers it is enough that the smile has returned to light the mother's face and that it now shines across the whole family; that she has escaped, with God's help, the prison she built around herself and has opened the doors of her heart and home to so many people. That she no longer feels ashamed to walk down the street with her son. That she has become humble and obedient enough to accept with trust the will of the Lord."
I feel Maria Francesca's small hand pass gently across my face.
What more could you ask for?
- Paolo Bertolini, 1987