A Love that Believes: Happy Fathers' Day

One of my earliest memories of my father is of him driving me to school. I must have been about 7 or 8. I have never been good at early mornings, and was half asleep in the car. When we got to the school’s side gate, he stopped the car and I managed to get out, blinking sleepily on the pavement. He got out too, came round the side of the car, and bent down to give me a good-bye kiss. Then I walked up the school steps, knowing he would watch a while and then get back into the car and drive off to that mysterious place called “work”. What he did there we never knew, but we knew we would see him again when he came back in the evening.

As a child I was always aware of “Dad” as a faithful and tender presence. He could always be relied on to drive us around when we needed a ride, to school or to church. He never went to church himself, not being Catholic, but must have spent countless hours waiting around outside for us to finish. He would be persuaded to come in, though, for special occasions, like when I played the keyboard for my first Easter vigil mass, or when my brother conducted the choir’s Christmas concert. He always had a humorous complaint to make about the uncomfortable seats, or the boring homily. Nowadays, quite against his will (so he says), he has become quite a regular in the church, helping out with my mother’s various charitable projects for seniors and the poor.

Over the years, friends I have brought home have always been full of praise for my father. While he might not have understood why I chose to work in an NGO, or join a motley crew of Catholic nuns, when I invited dubious characters from these places home, he never failed to pull out all the stops to make them feel welcome. Generosity and hospitality are some of his deeply held values. Usually, weeks after a visit to my house, friends would still be asking, “How is your father? He’s such a charming man and was so good to us.” Or once, “Your father has a great sense of humour; I see where you get yours from.” (Such a glow of pride I felt!)

Of course, as I got older I started to realise that even my father was not as invincible as I thought he was as a child (who is?). But then it touched me to see how he continued to be faithful to his own values in difficult situations. One of these situations was doubtlessly when I chose to leave home for a convent far away... a separation that was painful for all of us in the family, but perhaps especially for him. While I still feel the guilt of causing pain to someone who has always been there for me, I am tremendously thankful that in his love for me he has accepted my choices, whatever the cost to himself. I know that every time I touch down in the Singapore airport I can look forward to seeing him waving at me through the glass doors of the arrival hall. And that I when I leave again and pass through the immigration gate, I will look back and see him waving me good-bye through the glass -- not to school, this time, but to another life far away. Perhaps the greatest love of a parent lies in letting go.

On the day I made my first vows, my father didn’t think he was up to coming to the church to see it, so he stayed back in Singapore, and I could understand that. Surprisingly, though, that morning he sent me a video he had made for me, with beautiful photographs he had taken (he is a gifted photographer) to the soundtrack “I believe”. On the last scene he had written simply, “We believe in you.”

There was no better gift I could have asked for.

Thank you for believing in me, Dad. Happy Fathers’ Day.