All of us, to a greater or lesser degree, bear a father wound. That wound plays a significant role in who we are and how we behave. The wound is inevitable because a father is so great in his child's eyes that no mortal can avoid falling short. For those who grew up without a father, his absence itself is a wound. Some wounds are deeper than others, but we all have them. The sobering fact for those of us who are fathers is that we all inflict them as well.

Saturday morning had all the early markings of a great day. It was crisp and sunny and my two oldest were excited about running the "Jingle Jog", an annual 1-mile race at their school. It's a festive event, complete with race numbers, a t-shirt design contest, sponsors and prizes. Like most children, they went into the event with the expectation of winning. Like most fathers, I went into the event hoping they would.

Last year I ran with my daughter, so I told my son that I would run with him this time. I took a little time to coach him. I told him to stick with me, I'd set a good pace for the distance, one that I knew he could keep and that might get him a place on the podium. But at the sound of the horn, he sprinted ahead of me with the rest of his friends and ran out of gas after about 150 yards, right around the time I caught up.

"Come on Jack, let's go. Pick it up."

"My stomach hurts Dad."

"You started too fast, you'll settle in, just keep moving."

"I can't Dad, I don't feel good."

"You can do it, just stick with me. You'll feel better after you've run at a slower pace for awhile."

"Let's stop Dad, I can't do it."

"No Jack, I know you can. Let's go. You can still do well."

"Dad, I've got to stop."

"Fine. I'll see you at the finish."

So I ran ahead. Frustrated that he hadn't listened. Frustrated that he didn't have more perseverance. Frustrated because I knew he could have done so much better.

I justified running ahead by telling myself I could grab the camera and get shots of them both at the finish, and I did that. But that's not why I ran ahead.

As Jack crossed the line, right around the middle of the 3^rd grade pack, he looked defeated and sad. Had I stayed with him and uttered more encouraging words, his countenance would have been completely different. He wasn't sad that he didn't win. He was sad that I left him. He was sad that his father failed him.

My daughter finished a couple of minutes later, red-faced and tired. She said she "had that breathing problem again" which basically means she had to breathe really hard in the cold air. I tried to make up for my lapse with high-fives and congratulations at the finish. They posed for this picture, and shortly thereafter we went home.

I desire excellence for my kids, but at what cost? And what exactly is my definition of "excellence." Ultimately, I want Jack to be the most excellent Jack he can be, and we're both trying to figure out exactly who that is. The last thing he needs is a Dad who leaves him in the pinch.

I was aware that I inflicted this wound, and I'll do what I can to make up for it. But what about the others? What about the ones slowly accruing in my blind spots, the ones I don't even recognize?

I used to wonder why my father would occasionally be curt and critical. Now with a few years of fathering under my own belt, I marvel at the man's patient forbearance. It's tough to consistently respond to childish impulses with gentle words, to correct childish failures with patient instruction. And yet that's exactly what I am called to do.

Christ said that the man with good eyes is blessed because his whole body will be full of light, and that the man with bad eyes is cursed because his whole body will be full of darkness. "If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness." In context, he was speaking of the ability to distinguish the eternal from the temporal, the things that would decay from the things that will remain. I pray to that same Christ, who still gives sight to the blind, that he would give me eyes to distinguish between the significant and the fleeting in my children's lives. I pray that the wounds I inflict would be small ones, and that the one perfect father would heal even those.