A Father's Imprint

Today is Father’s Day. And so, I will observe one of those Ten Commandments: Honor Thy Father.

Confession #101: I attribute all my intellect, my curiosity, my love of language, and my questioning of religion to my father, Tom Stapleton. I believe he was most alive when he was waist-high in a lively debate on the ways, the meaning, the very existence of God. He used to say he was appropriately named, as he was the “doubting Thomas.” He seemed, in fact, proud of this moniker.

When he would try to rouse discussion on inequities of the world, or inconsistencies in the bible, my mother, sister, and I would stay steadfastly faithful and optimistic. My mother shuddered when Daddy would pick a verbal fight at the dinner table. I was the one who dared to fight back. This, I believe, paved the way for me later to somewhat deftly maneuver in my classroom around the deeply philosophical and controversial issues that lie in literature.

He did not teach me to question. He simply questioned. He did not force me to form arguments; he simply presented them.

Ah, but a deeply questioning soul is often a tormented one, because after all, those questions are inevitably left unanswered. In the end, he did not doubt the existence of God, only how He could “allow” so many people in the world to suffer when so many others live life so privileged.

My father was a tortured soul.

Daddy left this world several years ago. For such the intellectual he was, the ravages of Alzheimer’s must have been particularly tortuous.

I have become my father’s child. I believe he would be smiling at me today, that I have picked up the proverbial pen (or keyboard) and now pose my own questions. I wish we could be having this linguistic sparring in person.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. And, thank you.