Father’s unconditional love

The altar at St. Christine Catholic Church displayed the purple colors of Lent. I watched at Sunday Mass as the congregation approached the altar to receive Holy Communion. Both young and old moved slowly down the aisle ways, and my thoughts wandered back to a time in my youth.

It was a time when my father’s station wagon sat on wooden blocks in the backyard driveway. A rusted exhaust pipe needed replaced and my father and I would do the repair together. My job was to hand him his tools and to provide him with any other assistance that fell within my capabilities as a nine-year-old boy.

The March weather had been unusually harsh that year, and we slid a thick piece of cardboard beneath the station wagon to protect us from the cold ground from which we would labor. Hours passed as we struggled. I watched as my father used a hacksaw to cut deeply into the rusted metal pipe. He stopped briefly to rest. I tried to extend that cut on my own but managed only to bind-up the blade. Then I felt his hand wrap around mine as he grabbed the handle of the saw to help me. “Your hands are like ice, David”, he said, and he directed me back to the warm comfort of our house. I was grateful for a reprieve from the wind and cold, yet disappointed in my failings.

Lack of strength

Inside, I stood near the register as the heat from the furnace thawed my body. Then I moved to the back kitchen window. My breath formed upon the cold windowpane as I watched my father work alone. I felt unsettled that I had lacked the strength to be of much use to him, and I worried that he would think less of me.

An icy rain began to tap against the glass. I donned my hat and coat and quietly returned outside to the cardboard mat. I looked upward to measure his progress. The blade had nearly completed its course through the rusted pipe. He noted my return and asked me to finish the cut for him.

I looked at him questioningly, and then I reached up for the black plastic handle of the hacksaw. I pushed and pulled at it with a renewed determination. As the teeth of the saw took hold, I heard his voice instruct me, “Let the blade do the work.” I repeated his words in my mind and focused on keeping the saw from locking in its run. In a short time, I managed to work my arms into a smooth rhythm, and shavings of rusted metal began to sprinkle down upon my face and coat. Back and forth the saw moved as the muscles of my slender arms trembled with fatigue. And then, with the sound of a subtle snap, the pipe broke free. I dropped the hacksaw down to my side as I tried to catch my breath. I turned and glanced at my father. He nodded with approval and patted my shoulder as if I had won a great victory. I nearly burst with pride.

I’ve carried that memory with me for nearly 45 years. Somewhere in those years, I realized that my weakness served only to strengthen the bond between us. For in my weakness resided my father’s love and acceptance.

The line for Holy Communion dwindled down to a last few parishioners. I watched as each made their way forward; each burdened with the imperfections of the human condition. I watched as each lifted their open hands to receive the host, a simple act in recognition that their needs could never be satisfied within the limits of mortal strength alone. I thought how in this season of Lent our flaws serve only to bring us closer to God — much as the weakness of a young boy drew him nearer to his father in a cold and rainy March so many years before. And somewhere in that understanding, as mysterious and incomprehensible as it may be, resides an unconditional love and acceptance for us all.

David Bobovnyik is a Youngstown lawyer who works for the state and writes from time to time about the legacy of a boy who grew up on the city’s West Side.