One Day, My Son Will Look at Porn

One day, my son will look at porn.

Because he is full of imagination and curiosity. Because he doesn’t know all that the world is made of — all that people are made of — all that he is made of.

Because he will ask what he is made of, and, like many, turn to the world for an answer.

One day, my son will look at porn.

And I hope to, by then, have talked to him about the human body. About his own body. About who made him, and why.

I hope to, by the time he looks at porn — which is, statistically speaking, somewhere in the fifth grade — have told him I love him, and his mother loves him, and the Almighty, who fearfully and wonderfully made him, loves him as well.

I hope to have told him how proud I am of his fingers, of his arms and his eyes. Of his neck and his penis and his hips and his thighs and his kneecaps and every single one of his ribs.

I hope to have looked my son in his eyes and called him ‘beautiful.’

Over and over again, I hope to have called him ‘beautiful.’

One day, my son will look at porn.

And I hope to have told him there is no shame in believing someone made you, and there’s no need, though I understand such need, to make your own meaning and way in the universe. I know what it is to feel like you’re not enough, like you’re broken, and irrevocably so.

One day my son will look at porn.

And I hope to have talked to him about my own addiction. I hope to have sat down with him and his mother and, as a family, talk about what it means for his father to be an addict.

And I hope to have told him how sorry I am.

One day my son will look at porn.

And I hope to have told him, “Yes, son — son I love, son with whom I am well-pleased — sometimes your heart feels as if its wandering the wilderness, and it’s snowing, and the blizzard intensifies, and the snow rises higher and higher, and you feel less and less, and everything once warm turns numb, and all the pretty words of all the precious prayers they taught you in Sunday school freeze and whoosh away in the gale, and nothing remains but your silent, dying breath to keep you company.”

“Yes, son. Sometimes you feel so utterly and profoundly alone.”

I hope to have told my son how much I love him and cherish him. That I sat down and prayed for him long before he was born, long before I knew his mother.

I hope to have told him he is not alone.

One day my son will look at porn.

And I hope to have told him “Son, when I see you, I see Lord Almighty’s fingerprints all over you. The Lord made you well, and there was no crime when He made you.”

One day, my son will look at porn.

Because I will have had a son. Because I will have become a father. Because I will have loved, and it will have been clumsy and kind — imperfect, heartfelt — and good.

One day, my son will look at porn.

And I will love him. And he will be loved. And there will be no shame.