Father's Day

Happy Father's Day to the man I'm proud to call my dad. My early memories of childhood are punctuated with moments in which I would hear keys jingling in the metal door of our home and I would rush to see it open and yell “Daddy's Home!!!” as loudly as my voice would allow. In the foggy recollection of over two decades of time I can still see his face drift in and out of my memories, happy to see me. No one ever had to teach me to be excited when my father came home from work. It was a natural reaction to genuine delight. His presence brought a sense of completeness to each day as he came home in the evening. Then before bed he would sit down on the living room floor and I would clamber over to his side and empty his pockets. Pens, change, screw drivers, pocket knives, billfold, five dollar bills. The change went into my piggy bank and I would draw pictures of kittens and dragons and hearts and smiley faces all over his feet with the pens I pulled out of his pockets while he watched the news. The man who opposed tattoos had many a leg piece in his day. For practical issues of wanting a sandwich or a new set of colored pencils it was best to approach mom. For difficult and unlikely long shot requests dad was the go to. There was no other feeling of triumph and invincibility like the sentence “Dad said it was okay!” And that's how I became the proud owner of a kitten, the happy visitor of a theme park and the owner of a rich and extensive, fantastic collection of classic literature. Years later a therapist asked me if my childhood was happy trying to analyze and carve out the cause and effect of the person I had grown into as an adult. I couldn't speak, my words caught in my throat. My childhood. My childhood was the most beautifully imperfect collection of human experiences that a person could ever desire. Like the rise and fall and finely crafted intricacies of a symphony. She asked me about happy memories. I saw myself bent in half giggling on the floor playing legos with my older brother. I felt the way I had ran as fast as I could in the backyard behind the church and felt like I was flying. I heard the way my mothers voice was the happiest sound I had ever heard in my life. I relived the adulation I felt when my sister would talk to me at night when the lights were off. I felt the way that sitting atop my oldest brothers shoulders felt like the safest place in the world; and there in the center of it all was this intangible feeling that rested in my relationship with my dad. There it was in the midst of the flood of happy memories. My dad had loved me so much the weight of it had been staggering at times. And somehow I always knew. I knew I was the apple of his eye and the constant reminder of the weight he was carrying. That I, the little girl who adored him from the bottom of my heart also stirred the fear and doubt and responsibility, something I would never understand until I had children of my own. That me with my stirred up passionate ways and rebellious will and questioning mind was his to hold and carry and sustain. And he did. I just didn't know it when I was a child. Perhaps one of the biggest regrets of my life is that I didn't always give my dad the credit he deserved. It was so easy with mom. She was so affectionate and warm and gentle and practical. But as I began to grow and my identity took shape I directed my resistance at my dad. He became the object of my wretched unbending questioning of authority. A quality I was undoubtedly born with not a product of environment. I was unfair. A tiny framed, loud mouthed little girl with a penchant for testing limits and exploring the depths of boundaries. I wrestled endlessly with who I was. I demanded an answer. I demanded validation. When I couldn't fill the void I revolted and poured the world into it. I would overcome and confront my demons or die trying. I never knew how to live peacefully and process practically. It always had to be a storm. It always had to be chaos. I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop. Sometimes I frightened myself. An existential crisis is unsustainable and to live in one as a permanent state of being is unbearable. I waited to see what he would do, what he would say. The little girl who greeted him at the door was long gone. I stood planted on the cusp of losing myself with middle fingers raised to the world and rage in my heart for all the questions I could not answer and all the pain I could not process. If there is a loving God, He is asleep or dead I said. My dad asked me questions and told me stories. He spun long tales late into the night and told me about books he read. We watched black and white movies and he asked my why I insisted on smoking. He asked me to stop and I said no. I waited for him to ask me what was wrong with me. How I could be so selfish and hateful. I waited for him to throw me out of his house. I waited for him to hurt me back for all the unfair things I had said that I didn't mean. I waited for him to tell me I was a failure and a disappointment and not the daughter he had raised me to be. After all he had given me everything, a home, a family, the opportunity for a private school education, a job and everything I had ever asked him for. I repaid him by getting pregnant and shamelessly flaunting my animosity for everything I had been raised to believe. My persona immersed in a flood of rebellion. Months passed and a weight settled over my life for all the questions still unanswered the heaviness of the strained relationship. On my wedding day he walked me down the aisle and told me that he loved me. I was perplexed and went away to start my new life. My oldest son was born and as I looked into his face for the first time I was awakened inside. A slow and painful shift was set into motion and I felt the ache as my belief system began to crumble. The enraged and vindictive destructive nature of my heart began to give way to make room for tiny feet and little baby giggles. I began to imagine my dad holding me as a baby. I began to wonder what he had dreamed for my life as I now held my own child, my hope, my legacy in my arms. My sons face stirred the depths of my identity. I felt myself yield to the pull of his needs. I felt myself formed by the shaping of his life, his heart, his perceptions. I wondered who my dad had intended me to become. The ever present questions that had never left me alone began to unfold and this time I didn't run and resist. One night I called him and told him that I loved him and that I wasn't angry anymore. I no longer yoked him with the sum of the struggles I hadn't been able to bear on my own, and he forgave me. We hung up and I was on fire. I would never be the same again. I started to get to know my dad. My mom told me that the years I had spent fighting with them he had hardly slept. She recounted how he had wept for me and lived in fear that I would take my life. He wasn't wrong I told her. I was crushed beneath the tidal wave of revelation that he hadn't stayed up until the dawn hours for all those years for himself. I began to see my life through a different lens. My head and heart ached. He sent me presents and told me he was proud of me every time we saw each other. He adored my son and told me I was a good mother. I looked forward to seeing him every time I came home. I have great parents, I would tell people. I went through a divorce. I spiraled down, down, down, down, down. My grief was an endless ocean and I stopped swimming and sank into it. The big and beautiful dreams of legacy and purpose and hope that I had begun to see unfolding in the years since the phone call seemed false and unattainable. I sat in my parents living room surrounded by family friends as they prayed for me in this difficult season. I felt my dad's hand on my shoulders as he said that he believed in me and affirmed my genuine desire to do what was right. True to my hypocritical wretched habits from so long ago that had reared their ugly heads in the wake of the split, I was planning to sneak out and get drunk that night. I wished I was dead. The moments passing were agony. Time moves in slow motion when you are hurting. I heard my dads voice talking to me when I became a parent replaying over and over in my mind at night. “I believe He will make you the mother of a nation” My kingdom had fallen. I was only the mother of regret. I wandered in my dejection. It only took a few months for me to get pregnant again. Once again down the road I'd walked that had led to so much hurt. I dreaded the inevitable questions I knew I would have to answer. I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing my dad. I called him to tell him everything, bracing myself every minute for irrevocable consequences. He listened calmly and as I came to the end of my recounting the details of my mess he said “All right.” almost cheerfully. He told me he would help me in any way he could and that he loved me. That he believed I would overcome it all, and be okay. And that I was a good mother and he loved this baby already. There was no rejection, no shame and not an unkind word. Only limitless love and grace poured out on me in a moment in my life where I needed it more than anything else. There in the wake of tremendous failure I found I need no longer fear or doubt or question that his love was unconditional and wonder if I could lose it. I began to see that his constant adoration for me had never disappeared, simply slipped out of my line of sight for a time as my gaze had been fixed on my own self rejection. I began to feel the glorious dreams he had dreamed for me. I began to fight the lies and anger and refuse to swallow them anymore. Every time the hopeless feelings tugged at me I would remind myself that my dad loved me whether I sank or swam. If I fell he was going to catch me and that's just the way it was. Some people have told me its too bad we didn't always have a good relationship and I have to respectfully disagree. The way our wounds have scarred and healed is a powerful bond that is stronger than it ever could have been if the break had never happened. I, the girl who had questions, could never have been satisfied with hypothetical promises. He earned my endless respect by walking me through the valleys of my torment and never leaving my side. The way that a good father should. His love is concrete in that it is supported by the beams erected through years of steadfast love. I shudder to think of all the times I should have lost my life with my reckless wandering. But then I remember the pained hushed prayers I would hear in the morning as he got ready for work. And the atmosphere late into the night thick with the presence of petitions rising to heaven, laden with intention and determination. Sometimes I wonder if he felt all the suffering with me all along. If maybe he was carrying the burden with me all the way just out of my line of sight. Just one room over, holding me in his heart while I wrestled with my doubts. Believing he would live to see me overcome while I questioned if I would make it another day. I think my dad might have loved me more than anyone in this world ever has. The mighty man of God who weathered the storm of my soul, never relenting through ten years of trouble. I see it now in hindsight, my mom was the lighthouse her presence the never failing beacon that reminded me of home and safety and hope. But Dad was the buoy far beyond the shore straining to hold me above the waves until I found my way home. My father and I are tremendous friends. I can talk to him for hours and he is the most dynamic and exciting conversationalist. He always knows exactly what I mean no matter how abstract and complex the concept. We love to share ideas and explore the endless possibility of life together. He is one of the most satisfying people to talk to in the world. Sometimes when I start to feel afraid I just call him. And he tells me all over again that I am strong and I can do it. My dad makes me feel like I can do anything and like there is nothing out of my reach. Like as though all those hopeless, helpless feelings that used to own me can't even touch me now. Now his dreams have become my dreams. He has a heart to see all people thriving and full and at peace and the glory of the Lord descend onto the earth. He dreams of honoring his king with all he is for all of eternity. My life feels electric and on fire with purpose. I have two sons and I am raising them to carry on the legacy my dad built up in me. And when the earth shakes and quakes and comes to claim what I have planted I will stand steadfast on the foundation that my father laid for me. I will see my children overcome whatever life throws at them and arise, splendid and hopeful and determined to seek after the kingdom of God, for he has prayed these prayers over them, in faith and humility, the way he did for me. I will raise my family as a testament to the goodness of the man of God who fought for me against all odds. Many people will only ever know him as a funny man in a cowboy hat who enjoys a good conversation. But only a privileged few will ever know the man who if he cannot save you, will take your hand and go with you. Sink or swim, win or lose, for better or worse. I don't know what lies ahead, only that I'll never walk the road alone.