The Husband and I were discussing television parents the other night. The subject came up after yet another episode of Friday Night Lights in which Eric and Tami Taylor delivered some mad parenting skillz, and TH pondered aloud whether we should begin to write down some of their dialogue in the event that we become parents and need some back-up.

The Taylors remind me of some other TV parents I admire, chief among them Burt Hummel from Glee and, well, any of the Modern Family crew (although I most identify with the Pritchetts in their impulse to laugh at others and in the resemblance of hard-candy-shell Jay to my own father). If anything, the unifying characteristic of these authority figures lies in their flawed natures, their willingness to admit mistakes and imperfection and keep parenting anyway. And laughing at themselves. But then I guess that’s becoming one of my favorite qualities in general as I walk my own similar path: not pretending to be people we aren’t.

The other day I was on the phone with The Dad and he brought up a story from my childhood, a favorite pastime of his second only to bringing up stories from his own childhood (alongside his two brothers–avid storytellers all). He described, in detail (townspeople and villagers included), the time my younger self threatened to push The Sis into the fireplace, telling her, “And when I do, you’re going to hit your head on the brick so hard that you’ll die.” Um, yikes? I don’t remember this event–my mind is more fluent in memories of protectiveness toward my younger half–but The Dad stood by his story, saying that when he asked me back then why I would even think of such a thing, I replied that “I saw it once in a movie.”

Wounds. I could describe to you the raised scar on my arm, where The Sis got her fireplace-comeuppance by drilling a key into my skin, or the indented scar on my forehead, when she accidentally dropped (purposely hurled?) a stainless steel bowl full of water on my noggin. But beyond the physical, those we care about can deliver the deepest wounds. Whether yours was a family that you longed to escape or in which you found constant refuge, I doubt any of us survived childhood (or adulthood) unscathed. And I’m not just talking about the controllable hurts. Yesterday at church a new dad sat beside us, fresh hospital bracelet encircling his wrist, a sign of the baby who came into the world too soon and therefore won’t be coming home for awhile. Loving hurts.

Which is why we need a love that goes deeper than our deepest wounds, that is more true and real than the pain we sometimes feel could do us in. Anyone who hasn’t gone through worse than we have is at best a source of empathy, at worst a trove of supportive cliches–neither of which deliver healing as strong as the wounds themselves. Knowing glances and murmurings of “I’ve been there”–this will not do. We need “I’ve been there, and past there, and everywhere in between. For you.” Hmm…now where would we find such a love? And once we found it, would we have the balls to believe it? Because that just might change everything.