“A man of steel and velvet,” author-poet Carl Sandburg used these words to describe Abraham Lincoln. The phrase became for many a metaphor for the ideal male persona, the perfect combination of strength and tenderness to which men must aspire. Stu Weber expounded the vision in his groundbreaking book, Tender Warrior (1993). Weber defined “four pillars of a man’s heart,” identifying leadership, protectiveness, mentorship, and friendship as the essential masculine qualities. The last decade produced a flood of books, some calling men to a selfless cause, others highlighting their inadequacies, and still others deploring the buffoonish male stereotypes portrayed increasingly in the media. While the literature has been helpful, it has tended to raise the standard and guys are feeling the pressure. Can men live up to the image?

Complicating the challenge facing men are the apparent shifting expectations of fathers in our society. “After years of trying to domesticate me, now they’re telling me I need to rediscover my ‘wild heart’,” said one father in frustration. Having bought the vision of sacrificing his lust for adventure for the sake of responsible fatherhood, he was now being warned that his sons might rebel against his mild-tempered example. He’s asking a fair question, “Does my eleven year old really long for the father who will jump in a canoe and brave the Snake River Canyon with him or is this just my excuse to be reckless?”

When it comes to parenting, some men feel like they’re giving all they can and fear it’s not enough. “My dad was never expected to be my playmate,” said one father. “If he was a good provider and a disciplinarian then it was enough.” Today’s father is expected to be provider, teacher, coach, and friend. Balancing these roles can be stressful. If a dad passes up career opportunities in order to attend his daughter’s gymnastics classes, he has to live with the fact that he’s giving up resources that could benefit the whole family. These are not easy choices.

Is there any relief to the stress fathers are feeling? Perhaps one solution lies in helping men to deal with the bitterness they have felt toward their own fathers. Now that some have experienced the pressures of fatherhood firsthand, perhaps they’ll be ready to forgive their own fathers for not doing it perfectly. After they’ve let their own dads off the hook, maybe they’ll be in a better position to set realistic expectations for themselves.

In the end, fatherhood is about being a role model. Despite mistakes and struggles to keep up, whether we live selfless or self-indulgent lives will be evident to our children.

What kind of life do your children see? Do you care more about “getting it right” than you do about modeling honesty and humility?

© 2004, John Wallace

Due to personal and family commitments, we will go on a brief “blogging fast” in April. Check back on April 22 for our next post. Thanks!

I picked up my purse and said to the kids, “Come on; let’s get in the van.” It was as though I’d fired the gun for the 100 meter sprint.

Both kids grabbed their shoes (to put on in the car) and said to each other, “Hurry, hurry, we’re late.”

For once, I wasn’t running late or short on time, but their programmed response revealed more that I cared to know. My frantic pace was reproducing itself before my eyes in the lives of my two children. I hadn’t intended to stress out my children, but I couldn’t deny it. My chaos had become theirs.

Other parents had warned me that I’d begin to see my own bad habits show up in my kids. I was prepared for a child with a stubborn streak, or a shortage of patience, one who was a little too bossy or independent. In fact, I’d probably laugh off those shortcomings in the same way I’d learned to dismiss them in myself. But this scene was uglier than I’d expected. I saw my children having ulcers by age ten. I knew I had to change my ways, for their sake as well as mine

Scrunched into the backseat of our Russian chariot, we began our final tasks. Our driver, Igor, took us to the apartment home of Sasha and Natasha. We climbed into what looked like the elevator from the Shady Rest hotel and entered our home for the next 4 ½ days. We were exhausted and I wasn’t sure I wanted the added stress of being a house guest. However, Sasha and Natasha’s hospitality quieted my fears and I thanked God for his provision. Natasha had a delicious hot breakfast waiting for us. We ate quickly and then got ready for the children’s required doctor appointments.

We arrived at the American clinic in Moscow, where the Russian doctor spoke flawless English. Though he was kind, Masha wouldn’t speak to him. He gave us the appropriate medical clearance and with that, we had one more hurdle to jump-the INS.

Our last stop was the US Embassy to get the children’s visas. Weary parents holding crying children spilled from the waiting room onto floors and into hallways. After several hours, an agent began to circulate. “We typically process about three to four families a day,” she explained. “Today we have over eighty families. I’d suggest trying again tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? I wanted to be on a plane tomorrow!

Finally we heard our name. I held the kids while John spoke with the officials. His furrowed brows told me there was a problem. “We’re missing some paperwork,” John informed me.

“We need to call Ron and it’s one a.m. in California!” I snapped back.

“We’ll have to wake him.”

After a brief phone conversation, John reported, “He’s already sent one fax but he’ll fax another copy in the morning. I’ll have to come back tomorrow.” Back to our apartment we trudged; defeated and deflated.

The next morning, I prayed and paced until at last John returned, visas in hand. “It was looking pretty grim,” he explained. “They couldn’t find the faxes, so I pleaded with every supervisor until someone discovered our paperwork was filed under O! Apparently the W sound doesn’t translate into their alphabet. I’m telling you – God found those papers!”

It was Christmas Eve and we were headed home. After touching down in New York, we breezed through customs and immigration. My glee faded when I saw the wall of holiday travelers at our gate.

“Passenger Wallace, please come to the ticket counter.”

No! Lord, don’t let this flight be overbooked.

John returned with the news, “The flight’s overbooked.”

I knew it.

“They had to move us to business class.”

Forgive me Lord for always assuming the worst . . .

Both kids were asleep before the plane took off. I watched Masha, in her chocolate-stained shirt and wild brown hair, my tiny spitfire. Peaceful at last. What would I tell her? How could I explain it was our suffering that brought us each to this place of joy? I had no answers, but I wouldn’t trade places with anyone.

Assisted by changing time zones, Christmas Eve awaited our arrival to LAX. Joyful and exhausted, we plopped our luggage, our sleeping children and our aching bodies into our own car and drove home . . . . home for Christmas.