Every night, our house settles into a sacred rhythm. The lights dim, the world quiets, and I sit with my youngest son. We make the sign of the cross, say a select litany of prayers, and then I kiss his forehead. It is a moment that should feel holy, a moment of peace. All too often, it is clouded by a single, crushing thought that rises up from the depths of my own soul. *Who am I to bless this precious gift from God?*
I am a wretched man, a sinner, saying a blessing over such a fragile soul. That feeling of unworthiness is a physical weight, a presence in the room more real than the candlelight. Some nights, the words catch in my throat, and I just sit there in silence, listening to his small voice recite the prayers I should be leading. When I finally lean in to trace the sign of the cross on his forehead with my thumb, the feeling intensifies. *How can I lead this child to the Lord when the path inside me is so overgrown with my own failings?*
He looks at me with an awe that is both a treasure and a terrifying responsibility. He doesn’t see the man who came home from war carrying ghosts. He sees his father. He marches around the house singing cadences I taught him from the Army, because he wants to be like me. He wants to join the Army, to be strong like me. He knocks out an entire workout regimen before school and before bed, making sure I am watching his form, his face a mask of fierce concentration. Little does he know the war that still rages in my head after 14 years of service and multiple tours. He doesn’t know the people I hurt, the friendships that went awry, or the words I screamed at God in anger and hurt on sleepless nights.
One day, he may know those things. I have to be acutely aware that he is his father’s son, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That same fierce drive that fuels his workouts might one day curdle into pride. That righteous anger I feel about injustice could one day become an unjust anger directed at those he loves. I am not the first imperfect soul in my bloodline, and I will not be the last.
This is the paradox of parenthood: we are called to be guides, yet we are lost ourselves. We are asked to be lights, yet we feel shrouded in darkness. We are told to be shepherds, and we are just as prone to wander as our sheep. I am not called to be perfect for my son and daughter. I am called to be their father through all the brokenness, hurt, and pain. I am meant to show my children the reality of God’s grace, not some cleaned-up, Hallmark-card version of it. The reality of grace is messy.
We recite the Lord’s Prayer every night: “Forgive us our trespasses.” And even when I am not feeling worthy, I need to cling to that promise. But the feeling of unworthiness doesn’t vanish with a simple recitation. It lingers, and I am beginning to think, perhaps it should. Maybe that feeling is a gift, a holy humiliation that keeps me humble and dependent on a mercy I can never earn.
The other night, my wife handed me a deep realization, disguised in a simple action. I like to burn taper candles at night, turning off all the harsh electric lights to let the room glow with a soft, living flame. A while back, I blew them out without thinking, and a spray of hot, red wax splattered across the white marble of the Pietà statue she had received last Christmas. She had been working on it for a while, and last night, I found her with a toothpick, patiently and methodically chipping away at the hardened drops.
“It’s almost clean,” she said, but then she pointed. “See this? There’s a slightly pink stain where some of the wax settled. I can’t get it out.”
Her next thought was a slap in the face. “That’s our sin,” she said quietly. “We go to confession, and God forgives us. The wax is gone. But the residue... that stain is the temporal punishment. It’s still there. But with each prayer I say while working away at it, it fades, little by little. So you keep going. You keep praying for it to be renewed.”
That was it. That was the answer I had been searching for. The way to bless my children isn’t to pretend I’m unstained. The best way I can bless them is to let them see me chipping away at my own wax.
Just because I am imperfect doesn’t mean I can’t bless my children. In fact, it is that exact imperfection that makes my blessing possible. An angel didn’t come to me and call me “Full of Grace.” There are definitely days I am not within grace, and it’s important to remember that God wants me to live through my pains and sorrows to help my children navigate theirs. I can show them how confession works. I can show them what it looks like to be the prodigal son, constantly returning home.
This is where blessing becomes action. It is not just a prayer said over a sleeping child. It is the life lived in front of them.
When my son asks to play one more round of Uno, and I am exhausted, and it’s long past his bedtime, and I have a hundred other things I would rather do. The blessing is to put the work aside and say yes. The time to write can wait. Personal reading time is unimportant. Even in the midst of rebranding and relaunching my Substack, it is all unimportant next to that one round of cards. That act of presence is a love he can understand. Dinner with the whole family at the table is a tangible expression of the love God offers us in the celebration of the Mass. And there is nothing in the world that can replace the feeling of seeing his smiling face as the game ends.
That Uno game is me chipping away at the wax stain of my own selfishness. When I make the sign of the cross on his forehead, I am not acting as a perfect example of God’s holiness. I am acting as a fellow sinner, pointing the way to the only one who can *truly* wash us clean. I need to imitate my Lord in front of my children. I need to show them what it looks like to struggle, to fail, and to keep getting back up. The pain and hurt of our sins may never fully go away this side of heaven, but through these small acts of love and devotion, they begin to fade.
Focusing on just being there opens up countless ways to show love. It shows them that their presence is more important to me than my plans. And in that, they see the face of a God who dropped everything to come be with us.
If you are a parent who feels unworthy, be easy on yourself. You don’t need to be a saint to bless your children. You just need to be their parent. Show up. Be present. Let them see you chipping away at your own statue. Let them see you pray even when you don’t feel like it. That is more than enough. It is everything.
If this message found you at the right moment, consider sharing it with another parent who might need to hear it today.
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This is beautiful! Thank you for sharing.
Wow. This was written with such humility; absolutely gut-wrenching. The hardest lesson for me during OCIA when I converted, a lesson I still struggle with, is learning to forgive myself. Somehow, it’s easier to accept God’s forgiveness than our own forgiveness. The fact that you even ruminate on these lessons shows your dedication to your vocation of parenthood!