A Head, a Heart, and a Soul
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“Do you think I could ever be a good father?”
“A good father?”
“Yes, like yours, a man with a head, a heart, and a soul. A man capable of listening, of leading, and respecting a child, and not of drowning his own defects in him. Someone whom a child will not only love because he’s his father, but will also admire for the person he is. Someone he would want to grow up to resemble.”
I once heard someone argue that reading fiction is a waste of time. That you should only read books about bettering yourself—growing in faith or virtue, developing skills for your job. I tend to read a bit of everything (except maybe beach romance novels). And the reason I read everything is for scenes like this.
One friend asking another if he thinks he’d be a good father. And you get this beautiful, broken explanation of what that means. The character doesn’t have to give a theological or philosophical argument about fatherhood. He just speaks from his heart, even from the place of hurt hiding between his words, from his own upbringing.
That’s what I love about powerful stories. It’s not the perfect, airtight argument that moves our soul—though those are helpful. It’s stuff like this.
A man with a head, a heart, and a soul.
A man capable of listening, of leading, of respecting a child. Not drowning his own defects in them. Someone his child will not only love because he’s their father, but will admire for the person he is.
As we celebrate Thanksgiving, maybe it’s worth pausing to think about the fathers—and the people—we’re grateful for. The ones who showed us what it looks like to have a head, a heart, and a soul. The ones worth resembling.
And then maybe asking ourselves: Am I becoming that kind of person?