Transparent Christian Magazine

A HERO? THIS IS AN EASY ONE. When it was first suggested to me, a single image flashed in my mind. There was no debate. I loved my father, and because he is gone, it would be only right for the honor to go to him. He was a good father, a godly man, and for many reasons it would not only be justice to his memory, it would be the truth as well. But his was not the image that came to mind. Then, I suppose there is my brother Ray. For years I looked up to him with a kind of awe. He was older than me, taller, a great basketball player, and for years he could do no wrong. Then I grew up. But it’s not him either. And Benita, who has been my wife for twenty-four years this very day, for many reasons it should be her that I write about. But it was not her either. It was none of the above.

The word “hero”, for me, brings to mind one individual. And his heroism is not of the usual stripe. It is not necessarily news worthy. There is nothing actually profound about our story. He didn’t save my life—necessarily. He hasn’t broken any records, written the great American novel, or reached some great height of achievement in his life—necessarily. He has all his limbs. He hasn’t struggled against some addiction, or been cured of cancer. He hasn’t faced down any of my devils—necessarily. He has done none of these things, and yet, to me, when I think of a hero, I think of him alone. At the very suggestion of the word I think of my oldest son, Adam.

Adam was the best man at our wedding. He was only five at the time. We were married by Mylon LeFevre, in his back yard, and Adam dropped the ring in the pool just moments before the ceremony began. And do the math. That was twenty-four years ago. He will be thirty this December. No, he is not of my blood. He doesn’t even have my name. But he has something of me inside him which is indelible, greater than both blood or name. When I married his mother, when I took possession of her heart, I took possession of his as well, even as he took possession of mine. It was a mutual ownership, a claim we all made together. No, blood isn’t everything.

He is the son of my spirit. And we mimic what we love. I was young myself, and had little idea how to father a child. But after so many years, the evidence is in. I can tell when I see him with his own two kids now, Julian, who is three, and Evie, two. I can tell when I see the look in his eye when his wife Katie enters the room, and the tenderness that prospers between them. There is a bright sparkle, somewhere just between love and mischief, the greater part love. She is about to have baby number three.

I remember the day Adam got married. It was June. My father had died in January the same year. My heart was broken. When Katie entered the room to walk down the aisle, tears came in his eyes, and he smiled this large generous smile, a smile that seemed to change the light in the room. In that instant, I watched the boy become a man. That’s what heroes are all about. Showing you in a living way the really good stuff that’s inside you. Forgive me if I sound proud. The word “hero” does that to me.

David