Unrecognizable

One day my son might find an old photo of me. My hair won’t be as grey, my face not as wrinkled, and I probably look quite strung out. It’s from a time where I’m still figuring out fatherhood, stumbling more than striding. I hope he looks at it and laughs.

“Dad, that looks nothing like you.”

But more than that, I hope he hears stories about who I was—my impatience, my selfishness, the ways I fell short—and shakes his head, not in disappointment, but in wonder.

“Dad, that sounds nothing like you.”

Because I want the man he knows to be so changed by grace, so transformed by Christ, that I’m almost unrecognizable. I’m not there yet. Most days, I’m painfully aware of how far I have to go. I lose my temper when I shouldn’t. I let pride get in the way. I forget to savor the little moments that won’t come back. But every day, I feel the pull to be better—for him, and for the man I want him to see.

Parenthood is like a mirror, it doesn’t let you hide from yourself. It shows you your faults, but it also shows you who you’re becoming. I don’t want my son to grow up thinking I had it all together. I want him to know I was flawed but being remade. That the father he knows is a product of grace, not perfection.

Someday, I hope he looks at my life and sees the gaps filled by Christ. Maybe he’ll smile at that old photo and think how different his old man looked. And maybe, when he hears those embarrassing stories, he’ll quietly reflect, “you’re nothing like how you used to be.”

If he does, I’ll know I’ve done enough. Because the man I want him to see isn’t me at all—it’s Christ in me.