Each spring I wait for our blue irises to bloom in June. Typically, on a fine day in February, unlike true gardeners who do proper cleanup in fall, I remove the old stocks. I attribute my unseasonal timing to the glories of teaching wonderful university students and grading their many papers. A great privilege, but not as favourable for gardening, or so I say. February is late for this task, but now even I can’t procrastinate any longer. Still, good gardening habits or not aside, the irises bless us with their elegance year after year after year. By early May, their green leaves stand soldierly once more. 
And on some magical late May or early June evening, when at the 49th parallel the setting sun in the northwest shines with elvish beauty through the leafy green just so, there the blue irises at the entrance to our herb garden reign supreme. Shining sentries, serene, in salute to every good thing.
Blue irises. Did you just say, “Your irises are purple”? Yes, you’re right— in most lights, they’re royal purple, even translucent violet. But I often see them as blue. Maybe because my papa’s eyes were blue.
The irises are a transplant from my parents’ garden, a gift that my papa gave us the year they sold the family home. In his quiet gracious way, Papa, a wonderful gardener, like my husband too, quickly dug up the prize irises for us to resettle them in our own garden. Without a word spoken, we knew that their loveliness should recall the family home of many decades by flourishing in new soil. And here, transplanted, they thrive, bearing witness to my father’s (and mother’s) love, which surrounds us still. 
They testify of family—past, present, and future—planted on the soil of good fatherhood (and motherhood). They signal Heavenly Joy, cheering us on. Danke, Papa, danke.
And so, in early June, as the blue irises (purple, yes) herald the approach of Father’s Day, I’m filled anew with gratitude for my father’s legacy. He was a runner who ran the race of his long life well, track and field in his early years, 
and caring for his family, friends, younger ones he mentored, and others all his days. In track and field, he loved the 100 meter dash best. But in life, I’d say he was the long distance runner. You could see that he had his eye on the goal, and in his heart what mattered most in this life and for all eternity. Dad embodied what it means to be faithful to God and good to man. I owe him (and my dear mother) much, much, much.
But as I’m deeply grateful, rejoicing, I consider how Father’s Day, like Mother’s Day, and Christmas, can be fraught with sorrow. It can bring on the terrible reminder of “the father wound” that many suffer from—whether through a father’s absence or other trauma. To say the very least, “the father wound” must be faced before healing can begin. “Happy Father’s Day” means—what?
This season, I’d like to contemplate what good fatherhood means. I’m thinking of those who are crying out to have a good father, and of those who have seemingly stopped asking. I’m thinking of those who dearly wish to be fathers themselves but for whatever variety of reasons, can’t. The blue irises speak to me not only of the gift of my biological father, but also of the good fatherhood of the many who mentor the young. These heroes, often unsung, do not go unnoticed. And in the race of life, I’d say they’re first-class winners. It’s powerful to have such a good father, an Abba, in your life. The world needs “Abbas and Ammas,” as one friend who tirelessly nurtures the next generation declared.
This Father’s Day, I salute all the good fathers—my own, my husband, my brother, my son—all, biological fathers or not—teachers, pastors, authors, and other mentors who willingly take on the noble burden of caring for the next generation. And like my papa the runner, I am inspired to run my race—in thanks for his example and support, 
and because, first and foremost, we have Our Father, who art in Heaven. . . . Every image of good fatherhood is a reflection of The Heavenly Father’s heart. In the words that have been attributed to George MacDonald, that I can’t now locate, “This is and has been the Father’s work from the beginning–to bring us into the home of his heart.”
Happy Father’s Day! I hope that this season will inspire each of us in some fresh ways. Thanks for reading, for listening!
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Monika Hilder 