Today is Father’s Day.

At St.P.’s, our rector chooses not to mention the parental (Read: Hallmark) holidays in church.  She understands that many no longer have parents or never had loving ones or can’t be with loving ones or are too young to be in church and are in Sunday school making them greeting cards and crafty things.  These holidays are just just fraught with mixed feelings.  I appreciate that.  I think if we had sung “Faith of our Fathers” I would surely have shed a few tears.

Instead, today’s service began with the following:

Nearly everyone shed a few tears.  And no one has the answers to hatred and rage that turns into mass murders.

My daddy taught me to shoot a 22 rifle when I was a little girl.  He set up a Post Toasties box at a distance and told me to aim for the center of the “O’s.”  In that time and place, it was a natural thing to do.

And my daddy was shot with a gun once, by an enemy of war in the Philippines.  I saw the scar whenever he wore a short-sleeved shirt.  His life was “forever marked by the scourge of gun violence,” and not with just a physical scar.

I remember you today, Daddy.  I remember how brave and strong and wise I always thought you were when I was a little girl. When you were around, I was never afraid of anything. And I weep for a world where there is so much to be afraid of.