Listen to your Father

It must have been during my first year at the Naval Academy.

I don’t recall my specific offenses—perhaps I had failed to carry my weight, or maybe I’d dared to speak out. What I do remember was bemoaning the rough treatment of women, especially as it concerned me, to my father.

He listened, of course. My father, a proud graduate of the Naval Academy Class of ’42, had been forged in a very different fire. His class had graduated early, and the rising tensions with Japan upended the world. On the night before their final exams, as they faced their last hurdle before becoming commissioned naval officers, they heard their president declare war in response to the attack on Pearl Harbor.

His history loomed large. Despite the weight of that legacy and the fact that I had eight brothers, it was me—his daughter—who first returned to his alma mater as a midshipman.

Not just any midshipman but one of the earliest women to integrate into the Academy.

When I poured out my complaints to him, I was not sure what I expected from him. What I got was something that reoriented my thinking.

“Mary,” he said, with the steady resolve of someone who had seen and endured far more than I could yet imagine, “don’t listen to 18-year-old boys. Listen to your father.”

Maybe he reminded me then of my capability or intelligence. If he did, I don’t remember. What stuck with me was that simple navigational focus: listen to your father.

It has been a constant anchor. Over the years, whenever I’ve been at a loss to make sense of who I am or where I’m going, those words resurface, offering clarity and direction.

My father’s wisdom wasn’t wrapped in flowery speeches or grand declarations. It was direct, steady, and deeply rooted in his character. That steadiness has been a lifeline during seasons of struggle.

As a Christian, I’ve seen how this advice extends beyond my earthly father. For me, God is not a distant, heavenly presence but one nearer than even my father could ever be. When the noise of the world—critics, cynics, or even my own internal doubts—grows too loud, I remember to quiet myself and listen to the One who truly knows my worth.

Henri Nouwen captures this idea beautifully in Life of the Beloved:

“First of all, you have to keep unmasking the world about you for what it is: manipulative, controlling, power-hungry, and, in the long run, destructive. The world tells you many lies about who you are, and you simply have to be realistic enough to remind yourself of this. Every time you feel hurt, offended, or rejected, you have to dare to say to yourself: ‘These feelings, strong as they may be, are not telling me the truth about myself. The truth, even though I cannot feel it right now, is that I am the chosen child of God, precious in God’s eyes, called the Beloved from all eternity, and held safe in an everlasting belief.'”

In the clamor of doubt and distraction, the wisdom remains: Don’t listen to the chatter. Listen to the voice of someone who knows your worth.

Listen to your Father.

NOTE: If I were to create a book list that shaped my past decade, Life of the Beloved would be on the list.