My teens call me “Papi” and “Paps” these days. “Good morning, Papi.” I don’t mind. It’s from “Papa,” the origin of “Pope.” But I’m no Catholic. I’m just a dad who’s happy to find some heart and courage and brains, happy to get the kids further along life’s yellow brick road in one piece. My neighbour is a devout Catholic.
Hannah says “The Pope is cool” and Liz says “He’s like a grandpa.” Which means that he would have to be a Dad. Which means (let’s just pretend) that he would have to be married. Which leads me to a recent excerpt on said Pope, this excerpt from a recent column: In truth, I can easily picture …
(The Hamilton Spectator – Saturday, December 5, 2015)
KAMPALA, UGANDA ✦ I am not Catholic.
And, like you, I have my images of fatherhood.
The better ones have more to do with the holiness of, say, my boy with a ball and a catching glove on our sun-filled front lawn than with the Holy Father coming to visit.
So, upon my recent arrival back in Uganda after my Canadian visit for this, I was greeted with the good news that the children still had all their limbs attached, which, in such a longer absenteeism, is as realistic a hope as any to have. Of course, I gave them some gifts and this included some Turkish Delight, that enchanted …