I became a father forty years ago this year. I’ll never forget the day. My wife and I were escorted to a labor room and left alone. Standing at Wendy’s bedside, my job was to monitor the baby’s heartbeat and the frequency of contractions. Depending on the severity of the discomfort, my job was to coach my wife how to breathe relying on the techniques we’d learned in childbirth classes.

Shortly after we settled into a routine that would likely last a few hours, I noticed the baby’s heart rate declined dramatically. I was obviously concerned. When the heart rate dropped with every sequential contraction, I raced to find a nurse. Within minutes an emergency c-section was scheduled and all the lessons we’d learned for a natural childbirth went out the window. As Wendy was wheeled into surgery, I’m the one who could have used help remembering how to breathe calmly.

The procedure didn’t last all that long, but it seemed like an eternity. When the doctor presented our newborn daughter to me, he explained why the surgery was required. The umbilical cord had become wrapped around our baby’s neck and with each contraction it tightened. Had I failed to monitor the monitor, our child could have easily been stillborn.

My first day of fatherhood was my introduction to what being a dad would involve over the next number of years. There is joyful anticipation of an unknown future. There is the need for being coached on how to “breathe” when the “contractions” of daily life take your breath away. There is the realization that normal can give way to abnormal without notice. That happiness can be trumped by fear with no time to brace yourself. In the end the good outweighs the bad.

That first day of fatherhood eliminated any illusion I might have had that my daughter’s life (or mine) would be problem-free. I was reminded of that reality four years later when my wife and I dropped Kristin off at her first day of preschool. After leaving our precious firstborn in the care of a stranger, my stomach was in knots. And as we walked to our car in front of the school, I noticed someone had backed into our station wagon leaving significant damage and not leaving a note.

No, a father’s life is not without troubles. And neither are the lives of those for which he is privileged to provide and to help guide. We do ourselves a disservice by expecting what isn’t realistic. Life becomes less hard when we recognize it is (by definition) difficult. No wonder that time-honored maxim by Robert Browning is this father’s mantra. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a heaven for?

But lest I end this column on a downer, the overriding emotion I felt that first day of being a dad was one of gratitude and unconditional love. I had reason to be thankful. Kristin was born without complications. She was healthy. She was beautiful. She was mine. I was a proud father who cradled that miniature human being in my arms whenever I could steal her away from my wife.

I know I’m not the first pastor who has compared the love a father has for his child to the love our Heavenly Father has for us. But the firsthand discovery of that truth was so powerful, I was convinced this insight was something unique to me. I truly do understand how much God cares for me by the depth of love I have for my kids. Nothing (underscore nothing) can separate me from them.

“Behold what manner of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God. And that is what we are.” 1 John 3:1