Fathers and Sons

I remember when I was a little kid that whenever I heard my dad walking down the hall with his heavy steps toward the room where my brother and I were, I would be overcome with a sudden and intense fear, not as of terror, but as of the shocking awareness of lessness, of the realization that somehow these footsteps and the man they accompanied contained in them more power and authority than I could ever understand. If I was in bed, I would yank the covers over my head and huddle as small as I could. If we were awake and he talked to us, I would spend the whole time trembling, even when he sat on the bed and hugged me and I could smell his end-of-the-day breath that meant everything was all right.


I don't think he ever knew how afraid I was, afraid that the footfalls in the hall would lead him to me, but also afraid that they would lead him away. I could never make sense of it, even at the time. I hadn't been doing anything wrong, and I knew it - further, I knew that he was just coming to check on us to make sure we were all right, or to tell us about a baseball game he knew we would like to see. And this fear never happened with my mother, even though she was the more likely to punish us when we did something deserving, a contradiction that perplexed me to no end.


I never really understood what it means to fear God, how a love that consumes my entire being can coexist with, and even give rise to, a fear that can be called holy. A couple of weeks ago, think on these memories, I feel like I began to understand.