For some, Father's Day is full of laughter. We celebrate the men who raised us, guarded us, lectured us, mentored us, and smothered us in dad jokes. These men are often the unexpected heroes of our society. They're the ones who move quietly from working all day to fathering all night. They stick around to change the diapers, carry the snacks, cuddle the crying. They set the tone of our personal growth, and our childhood memories are often filled with moments where these men taught us to ride bikes, change tires, and fire up the grill. Ideally, they are the strength we run to, the provision we trust in, and the protection we lean on.
But what about when none of that happened?
I watched church online this morning because my daughter didn't want to go—and I didn't blame her. Our society laughingly calls this "daddy issues," but the truth is, it's deeper than the long-gone voice I still hear in my mind when I think of my own father. The pain of abandonment, family estrangement, and trauma recovery are no joke. And yet...
This morning, church started with a video. Very serious tones, serious faces. Stellar dad joke delivery.
And those dumb jokes got me thinking about another father figure who, in many ways, directed the early years of my life. Was he perfect? Not by a long shot. But in the midst of an incredibly difficult childhood, where every day was a crash course in surviving hard times, my older brother gave me one of the greatest coping skills I've ever learned.
Somewhere between waking me up for school because our single mom was at work...and putting me to bed at night because our single mom was still at work...
He showed me that some days, finding joy in difficult times really is as simple as healing through laughter.
No one in my family is conventionally beautiful...but none of us are ugly, either. We all have memorable traits, both good and bad. The women universally have lovely eyes, no matter what color they are—and the men were all blessed with great skin. We all seem to have our own distinctive thing, too. My cousin's wild hair, my grandma's cute little sausage fingers, my aunt's 30-year mullet.
And my older brother's slick grin, which was as slow and sly as any Grinch long before Jim Carrey took the role.
When we were little, my brother and his grinch-grin taught me to laugh like a maniac for no reason. And looking back, I think there were times when his example of determined humor saved my life.
We were raised with the kind of exceptionally strange family dynamics that can stump a trauma specialist, and if our family was the type to have reunions, we'd form a live-action cautionary tale for recovery and healing from the past. Together, we're a showcase of every level of childhood trauma, a testament to the importance of mental health awareness. If we made a yearbook, it would just be pictures of us glued to the pages of a ratty old DSM-V.
We literally had a brawl at a funeral once, and that's not a joke.
We're weird; that's what I'm saying.
Anyway, my older brother is seven years older than I am (fun fact: my younger brother is seven years younger), and he was the first to teach me the value of the people who protect us. He'd beat up bullies and orchestrate bike rides. He'd sit at the riverside catching minnows, and when Mom was working, he made endless pots of beanie weenies.
I think he taught me to laugh.
Dysfunctional families are hard for kids, and there are entire years of my childhood that I can't remember. There's a scene in my mind where I'm stripped to my panties in the guidance counselor's office at school, and the police are taking photos of the bruises on my body—but I don't remember any of what happened. Someone asked me once if I'd like them to pray over me, and as they cheerfully said, "God can open those memories!" I thought about the way our minds are built to shut the door on experiences too painful to carry.
And judging by what I do remember? I don't need to know what's behind Door Number 3. I'll pass. And I'll laugh when I can, sometimes over nothing at all.
My brother invented a game when we were little, and back then I just thought it was proof of how clever he was. These days, I wonder what he took the time to distract me from. He'd sit me down, trying to be serious, wearing that grinch-grin, and he'd say, "Okay, we're gonna play Laughs."
Even now, I can feel the little girl in me sitting straight, big blue eyes trained on his face, nodding in silent anticipation.
He'd draw his brows together, thinking. I'd watch the rise and fall of his chest, waiting for the game to start. He was a skinny boy, and sometimes I'd watch his belly, looking for the telltale clench of muscle. Eventually his chest would hitch with his breath, his belly would tighten, and light would spark in his eyes. The grin would widen...and then suddenly he'd be laughing.
I never knew what got him started, but it never took long before the laugh spread. I'd laugh at how hard he was laughing, and he'd laugh until he cried, watching me giggle uncontrollably. Sometimes we'd play that game until our cheeks ached and our bellies cramped.
And so, on days like these, I tear the page of his example from the DSM-V and I keep it in my pocket. I don't need lost memories anyway.
*****
I know that for a lot of people, Father's Day is a beautiful celebration—but for others, it's a painful reminder of what was missing, what was lost, or what never really existed at all. For many, this day is a mixture of gratitude and grief, love and disappointment, laughter and longing.
Our relationships are rarely as simple as Hallmark would have us believe. Maybe that's why those dad jokes hit me so hard this morning.
And while I'll admit that I do love a good dad joke, none of today's jokes were especially funny...but they reminded me of something I've spent most of my life learning over and over. Humor and healing are not the absence or removal of pain.
They just help us carry the pain that cannot be removed. They're the healthy coping mechanisms that get us through hard conversations, the deep breaths that straighten our shoulders.
They're the building blocks of emotional resilience that remind us to keep going.
My brother couldn't change our circumstances. He couldn't erase the things that happened behind closed doors or guarantee a better future. But he could sit cross-legged in front of a little girl with that grinch-grin on his face and create a space for joy. He didn't just make me laugh. He taught me to survive.
So I don't know whether you're celebrating a wonderful father, grieving the one you've lost, or wrestling with a complicated history. Maybe you're like me, and you're just trying to make it through another difficult day. Either way, I hope you find a reason to laugh. Not because pain isn't real, but because even the darkest moments have room for light.
And sometimes, it's that belly laugh that gives you what you need to...
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