Grace, my father, my future

The internal argument about whether to "put this out there," has been one of comparison: other people have suffered far worse than I, have climbed taller mountains, trekked through deeper valleys. But at the end of the day, this is my story to own, to make sense out of, to find clarity and perspective. Call it whiny. Call it self-involved. It's my road to walk, not yours.  My apologies for this piece's lack of fluidity.

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 There is a natural progression that happens in the parent/child relationship as a child reaches adulthood. As a grown-up, children begin to see their parents in a different light. Because of their own experiences in the world, the child grants the parent a reprieve, gives them grace, and accepts them for who they are: human. The father becomes friend.

Unfortunately, I was never able to have this with my dad. He died before I was truly able to "come home."

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The one thing that most people, arguably all people, would say about my dad was that he was a good man. The minister that spoke at his funeral said, "if you met him, you liked him." And, there is no denying that. He was friendly to all with whom he came in contact. He doted on my friends, always having a hug for them, ever the encourager. I'm grateful that he was kind to people that, still today, are very dear to me.

Home life; however, was not a mirror of that behavior. It seemed as if, when public time was done, he was out of smiles and hugs. He was not abusive or cruel by any means, but he was damagingly critical and had an uncanny ability to take any situation that involved me and turn it into a reflection upon himself. The easy-going, edifying, affectionate man my friends knew would morph into a short-tempered, name-calling, judgmental tyrant. Granted, these were the worst days and they weren't so often that recovery could not occur, but even on the other days, my dad was dismissive, opting to spend his time in solitude out in his shop and gardens. I had to go to him; he never came to me unless he was angry, (probably the catalyst for many of the things I did that had zero purpose beyond infuriating him).

I don't want to vilify my dad, but I do have to be honest about how his actions informed my development as a man. As a person. And I was a holy terror. From a very young age, I was on the attack. Plotting. Scheming. Planning my next ambush just to throw everyone off their game. From hiding keys and wallets, to loudly repeating something my dad had said about someone else, I'd found my purpose for existence:  to make him miserable. (There are also instances of lighting the dog on fire and attempting to blind my brother, but those are stories for another time). This all began, I believe, after my mom became sick.

I discovered what helpless meant as I watched cancer slowly and deliberately take away the one person I trusted.  My family did the best they could during those times. While my mom was sick, my brother and I were forever being shuffled from one person's house to another, never finding our footing, never sure of what the day would hold. I was a mama's boy, always by her side. To be shaken from that place of comfort so abruptly took an enormous toll. It seemed that, from then on, I was pitiable. I was the boy whose mom died and I was treated accordingly.

There were loving moments that I recall from my father during my mom's illness and death, and I cherish those memories. I think it was really hard for him to even be around me after she died, as I was a reminder of her.

Losing my mom changed him. For the rest of his life, you could often catch him with a far-off look in his eye. Wistful. Longing. Sometimes, even defeated. The grief that you carry when you lose a spouse is multiplied by the grief you carry for each of your children who've lost a parent. And it never goes away.

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I could rant on about the selfish choice my father made as he remarried less than a year after my mom passed, but he paid for that in very tangible ways. And I know he recognized how my brothers and I suffered the consequences of this choice and many others as well, it just took him longer than I would've liked.

My dad had so much to overcome. He came from dirt-floor poverty, battled alcoholism, could barely get out of the gate to run his own race. He provided for his children the best he knew how. He craved a simple, Godly life but, in his later years, he finally began to understand the great mystery and complexity of his heavenly Father and that he wasn't as wise as he thought his opinions reflected.

In my last visit with him, which would have been a couple years before his death, he told me he was ready to go. He had raised his kids, done all he knew how, was tired and wanted rest. I am thirty years younger than he was when he died, but I not only hold on dearly to this conversation, I actually understand that feeling. That longing for home. This life is hard enough, but it's that much harder for those of us who have been taught to bet against ourselves.

I will never understand why God gave us each other. We were different in almost every way and only similar in the ways that kept us apart. For him, I had to be a freak of nature. For me, he was who I didn't want to be. I have flashes of anger still, when I think about his temper, his selfishness, his avoidance of me, his burying secrets and covering things up because of his own weakness, but at this point, holding on to any of it is no more than a crutch and enables a life less lived.

Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to have him in my life now. I would still do things in public to embarrass him, I'm sure. The one thing my dad and I always shared was love for a great prank. I imagine I would drive my lawn mower the hour or so to him, not because I really needed him to fix it, but because I learned, too late, that when he was tinkering with something, his mind and spirit would open up and he could really listen. He was more thoughtful. We would discuss politics, (and agree more than my brothers could actually imagine, he may have been a Reagan democrat, but he was still a democrat), we would talk about grace and shake our heads at how long it took both of us to really begin understanding it. I would poke at his legalistic badges and he'd lecture me about things that really don't matter and we'd be right back to grace.

I am grateful that I have a step-mother who is also a dear friend. She has taught me a great deal about my dad since his passing. Shared insight into situations and decisions. I can see now, in some situations, she was trying to bring us together even though I had a target on her back as well. She occasionally finds things around the house and hangs on to them for me until I make a far-to-rare appearance.

One of the first items she gave me was my dad's pitch pipe.  I carry this in my truck and, if you see me up front on Sunday, that's what I have in my hand. I guess it's my way of turning pain into poetry. Weariness into worship.

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At some point, revisiting the past becomes exhaustive, repetitive, fruitless. So I take each harsh word, each dismissive action, each moment that broke my heart just a little more, I take great pains to pen each story with truth and reverence and when each story is complete, I exhale and whisper, "I forgive you, because you forgave me." I tie it to a balloon and, with a hopeful glance up toward heaven, I let go.

 I say goodbye to what was and embrace what will be.