A Warrior's Tears - Strength in Weakness

Several years ago, I had the pleasure and honor of coordinating and participating in a weekend retreat for United States military fathers and their sons. The dads on this retreat were highly trained, extremely experienced, and had the literal scars to prove it. One father and one moment made such an impression that it has stuck with me for over a decade.

For the story's sake, I'll call the father Tom and the son Sam.

When I met Tom for the first time, I was immediately intimidated. His size reminded me of John Cena, and upon arrival, his intense gaze took stock of us and the surrounding environment. By Tom's side was his son, Sam, a quintessential pre-teen boy - lanky, awkward, anxious, and making no attempts to hide that he didn't want to be at this retreat.

The first evening included a welcome message, dinner, and a get-to-know-each-other session before everyone headed to bed. Side note: with 24 screws and three plates surgically attached to my body, I typically impress during the "Tell us your craziest scar story" game. My story did not hold a candle to the tales these guys told. All I'll say is that C4, IEDs, and a grenade launcher were all mentioned.

The following day, after breakfast, our group's first activity was rock climbing. After stepping into their harnesses, Tom and Sam started to climb the wall. About 15 feet up, Sam's nerves began to show. He stopped ascending, legs trembling, voice quivering, "Dad, I want to go down."

Tom climbed closer to his son and then gave a masterclass on parenting a scared child. Tom acknowledged Sam's fear, empathizing with him and letting his son know there are times when he gets scared. Tom reassured Sam that he was safe and that between his harness and the trained person holding his rope, he wouldn't be harmed even if he fell. Tom said how proud he was of Sam for climbing as high as he did on his first attempt at rock climbing. Tom told Sam how much he believed he could push through the fear and climb higher. Despite his dad's unconditional support and encouragement, Sam ultimately decided to descend back to the ground.

As the duo removed their climbing gear, Tom knelt to look Sam in the eye. Tom pointed at the spot on the wall where Sam climbed to and said, "Sam, I bet you didn't realize it, but you climbed all the way up there. Great job." Feeling anxious and perhaps embarrassed, Sam quickly walked away to find a bench to himself off to the side.

I saw Tom sigh and grimace, not because he couldn't help his son scale a wall but because his attempts to connect with him had been rejected. Tom walked over and sat down next to his son. Tom gently put his large, tattooed arm around Sam's shoulders, and Sam immediately shrugged it off. This was Tom and Sam's dynamic the whole weekend.

On the final day of the retreat, as everyone started grabbing their bags and loading their cars, I asked Tom if he had a second to chat. He said he did, and we walked away from everyone else toward the lakeshore. I told Tom how much he reminded me of my dad and how much I saw myself in Sam after spending time with them over the weekend. My dad was loving, affectionate, and encouraging, and sometimes, especially around those middle school years, I was so uncomfortable with myself that I wanted nothing to do with him.

I then told Tom that the greatest gift my dad ever gave me was an unconditional love that was never in question. It was only after getting to know people in college that I understood this wasn't the case for everyone. I looked at Tom and said, "You are a fantastic dad. It's obvious you have a deep love for Sam. Just keep doing what you're doing. The middle school years are gonna be weird, but Sam will come around and eventually appreciate you and cherish the love you've given him over the years."

Tom, a warrior in every sense of the word, smiled, and his eyes filled with tears. As he let his tears flow freely, he thanked me, told me how much my words meant to him, and hugged me, which lifted me off the ground and cracked my back. Not a dry eye between us, Tom and I shook hands, said goodbye, and parted ways. That was over ten years ago, and I often think about Tom and Sam.

Now that I have a son of my own, I find myself asking age-old questions, "What does it mean to be a man? What do strength and toughness look like?" With these thoughts rumbling around, I stumbled on 'The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse' by Charlie Mackesy - a beautifully illustrated and deeply thoughtful book about life. When I got to the page pictured above, I paused.

"When have you been at your strongest?" asked the boy.

"When I have dared to show my weakness."

The first time I read those lines, I immediately thought about Tom - a battle-tested soldier and "a man's man" who didn't balk at sharing a personal struggle or try to hide his tears. Seeing Tom tearfully smiling was burned into my memory and has become the image of true personal strength.

Based on the idea of finding strength in weakness, I devised a few mantras I recite to myself and my three-year-old son. I hope we both take them to heart.

It takes more strength to be gentle than it does to be forceful.

It takes more confidence to be kind than it does to be mean.

It takes more wisdom to be curious than it does to be judgmental.

It takes more courage to be vulnerable than it does to be closed off.

It takes more toughness to show weakness than it does to hide it.