In the summer of 1968, a few months after the Tet Offensive shook America’s confidence in the Vietnam War, my father deployed for his second combat tour. He left behind six children and his wife of 21 years. Over the following year, he commanded an infantry brigade in combat, earned his third and fourth Silver Stars for valor, and all but secured his promotion to brigadier general. It was a career-defining tour. But for my siblings and me, 9,000 miles away, it was also a year without a dad at home.
My mother carried the family with extraordinary strength. But we missed out on things: Dad wasn’t around to watch baseball or coach basketball. The familiar figure renovating the old house my parents had bought after his first tour in Vietnam simply wasn’t there.
Parts of my father’s life did not go smoothly. He made mistakes—as humans do. And if you assessed him strictly on his “dad duties,” you may have found him lacking. Yet when he died at 89 and our family buried him at Arlington National Cemetery, I knew I’d had the best father I could have asked for.
For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be like him. He was steady under pressure, humble in success, principled always. His example gave me something to aim for—even if I never quite hit the mark. This is what the best of dads do for us. They set the mark.
Today we talk a lot about the importance of fathers taking on an equal role in parenting responsibilities, and that’s a good thing. But we don’t talk enough about the power of example. Fathers are more than disciplinarians, providers, or part-time coaches. They are living, breathing case studies in character, and whether they’re physically present or not, their influence seeps into their children.
Children are observant. Even when they don’t have the words, they are watching. They see how we, as parents, treat people. They hear what we say when the person being discussed isn’t in the room. They notice when our words don’t match our behavior. And quietly, over the years, they begin to understand what character really looks like.
We tend to default to simpler measures: Did you get to the game on time? Did you plan the vacation? Did you take the photo? Those things matter too, of course, but they are incomplete. If we want our children to understand courage, we must demonstrate it. If we want them to value humility, we must practice it. These aren’t messages delivered in a single conversation. They’re impressions formed over a lifetime.
That’s why the responsibilities of fatherhood extend far beyond the household. Who we are in our community, in our professions, under pressure—that’s what counts. When our external behaviors contradict what we preach at home, we can’t expect our children to absorb the better version. They will inherit the whole.
This is not a permission slip to skip bedtime stories or miss first steps. The presence of a parent matters. But what matters more, and carries further, is the parent’s character. Character is what follows our children when they are alone, unsure, or tested; it becomes the compass they refer to when we’re not around to offer directions.
As I reflect on my own failings as a dad, what I hope I offered most is not memories but modeling. I tried to live my values. I tried to be the same man in uniform as I was at home. That’s what I learned from my own father.
The day my dad died, he had four grandsons serving in Afghanistan. They weren’t their grandfather, or their respective fathers, but each understood the sacrifice they were making. Their own children lost out on some things, but received the gift of example in return.
This Father’s Day, I propose a broader definition of what it means to celebrate fathers. Let’s celebrate those who lead lives worth emulating, even when they’re not in the room. We don’t need perfect fathers. But we do need honest ones. Consistent ones. Men of character who, even in their absence, remain guiding stars.
Stanley A. McChrystal is a retired United States Army general and the author of On Character: Choices That Define a Life.
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