Dirty Little Liar

You're a liar.

Ya.

You. 

I’m talking to you.

Sometimes we're “Irish Liars”. Where everything is a tale of the tallish sort. Embellishment as sport. Could be about our walk home but we'll add in that there were celebrities lining the streets and llamas getting out of the zoo. 

Then there’s when we use the “let’s just make life easier" lies. When we “no, never got that email,” and “Sorry, I’m not feeling well/my aunt died/have an appointment.”

But these are lies of the less sophisticated sort.

Mostly, we're better at it.

I lie. 

You lie.

We lie. 

Most often, to ourselves.

About how much it hurts.

About what it is we’re afraid of.

And that we’re doing “fine.” 

These are lies that we use out of convenience. So we don't have to deal with what's really going on.

But there’s also lies we use to avoid doing the good we can.

We lie about that thing which makes us walk straighter.

That we do and then feel the rush of the ocean crashing on the shore.

We lie about how good we actually are: our potential.

Because it would mean we would have to put in the work.

And it would mean we would risk failing.

And also being rejected. 

We’re scared to imagine what would happen to our lives if we just ripped the bandaid off.

We’re scared, too, that we might succeed.

We’re excellent liars, all of us.

When I was down to the end of my rope because I'd tried and come up failing, I went back to my hometown and went to see the priest that knew me since childhood. He said: "Jesus needed to hear it. Before he started his ministry. He needed to hear it. The heavens opened up and a voice came from heaven. You are my beloved son, with you I am well pleased. Then He was able to do what He had to do." 

Dads, we need to hear it too. 

Why?

Because

A big part of our job - as dads - is to speak truth to lies.

We’ve got our work cut out for us.

“I can’t. I’m not good enough.”

No. Look at me. You got what it takes. You can do this.

“It’s not worth it.”

You’re worth it.

“I’m so ashamed.”

I’m so proud of you.

“No one likes me.”

I love you … He loves you.

They won’t always come out and say it (we don’t either).

It’s the shrugged shoulders, the quiet walk away, the look of desolation … you know they’re lying to themselves because you’ve done it a million times too.

Dads: our job is be that broken record.

I love you. I’m proud of you. You got this.

Day in.

And day out.

Over and over again.

That's truth to power right there.

And just spending time can sometimes say it loudest. 

“You’re worth my time, honey. Yes. You’re worth it.” 

That’s crushing the head of the serpent right there.

Know your truth. 

Know your power. 

Dads.