We came into the world one at a time over the span of approximately six years, I, wedged in the middle of the estrogen-powered progeny of our parents. Three girls. All different. All somewhat the same. It did not occur to me as we played in the sandbox or rode our bikes together that I would someday hold a sister's hand and think how much it looks like my own or hear her voice on the other end of a telephone line and feel that I had never left home. The same soil from the same garden produced us, but the blooms were, though spectacular, very different. It was that garden loam that still clung to us in September of 2007 when we all came together over Daddy's death. Humming unmistakably in our hearts was the family song, this time a dirge. Grief was the common lyrical line, but we each sang it differently.
In February of 2002, we had all met at Daddy's house to go over his finances and to discuss his future care. It was the first time we sisters had been in the same room together for several years. Our individual pain had customized our very different reactions to the train wreck that was 1985. My younger sister had brought her daughter, as had I. Heather had given us our first grandson in December of 2001, so she met me in Dallas to show him off. Four generations crowded around Daddy as he leaned back in his recliner wearing pajamas and reading off his final wishes, his glasses pulled low on his nose so he could peer at the print through his bifocals.
In the kitchen that evening we were our mother's daughters as we peeled broccoli, chopped and diced vegetables for salad, kneaded biscuits, and fried chicken. We could have been in high school again; the air was familiar as we breathed it together, our differences lost in our kitchen busyness. Daddy had a "lady friend" - a recent widow - he wanted us to meet. The anticipation of meeting a new person in Daddy's life made the discomfort of our being together after so long apart seem familiar and safe. We barely knew each other any more, but no one knew her.
I had moved away. That was much of the problem with our communication. My sisters lived in the same south Texas county and were integrated into each other's lives. Though there was genetic soil beneath our fingernails, we had been planted in far different settings by then. Though we shared the same genes, it was apparent to me, after the trip in 2002, that being sisters would require some work; it was not an automatic ongoing "given" that we will deeply connect without pursuing each other.
Our hands were not the only common thread that was obvious to me; our hearts, also, were and are forever intertwined. Though I could not take those hearts out and look at them in wonder nor hear the actual song birthed into each of the three of us, I was struck by the palpable love I felt for my sister as I cut her hair with Daddy's kitchen shears that evening when the plates were cleared, the dishwasher humming, and the "lady" was gone, leaving the foreign scent of her perfume behind. She had clearly had no interest in Daddy, but, it seems he was hopeful that, since she had cared for a handicapped, dying husband, this lovely widow might take him on, also. We all instinctively knew this and breathed a collective sigh of relief, as I clipped away at the reddish strands of my sister's hair, that this sweet widow was too smart to become entangled again.
Seeing my niece again, her beautiful face reflecting my sister's, made the world somehow smaller once more. Mother's dishes in her German hutch, the familiar knick-knacks gracing the mantle, and the oil paintings on canvas over the sofa all closed in to embrace us in "home" for a few hours. It is in our marrow. We have known each other from the beginning. We know what we were like as kids; share memories that only sisters who have ridden long distances in a family sedan for seemingly endless hours on vacations can possibly know. Though the lines had gone mostly silent for a while, it was not dead.
Daddy died on a Saturday morning in a month when the world seemed upside down with Blackwater security personnel accused of killing seventeen Iraqi civilians, with Nuon Chea, the second in command to Pol Pot, charged with the slaughter of over one million innocent Cambodians, with the massacre of ten peacekeepers by Darfur rebels, with Idaho's Larry Craig's resignation over allegations of homosexuality, the devastations of three earthquakes in Indonesia, and with the release of Bin Laden's latest video threatening to escalate killings in Iraq. Daddy's death was but a small, unheralded leaving - a quiet, early morning stilling of his heart, almost unnoticed as the world ground forward in its agonies and ecstacies. My older sister was in Europe; my younger sister called me with the news. We were not expecting it so soon; but, sitting alone in the overstuffed ivory chair in my living room, I held the phone in my hands long after the line was disconnected. My world certainly changed that morning, and I had to close my eyes and replay life, my soul searching with some hot sensor for just what I should feel. Forgetting the din of the grasping, screaming, clamorous world, the event no one recorded changed the tenor of my life. Relief was the preeminent response. Not red-hot and glowing. Soft and peaceful.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
Dear Readers
Thank you so much for entering into my life through these blogs. I have learned so much from writing and praying through this story. It would be such a great blessing to me if you would give me some feedback as I am seeking a publisher for the story. I would like to know your thoughts if you have a few minutes to post them. I love you for taking this journey with me. May you experience the blessings of our faithful Father in your lives.
Kay
Kay
Epilogue
Last night my mother and father came by to see me. Daddy was wearing a silvery-gray suit, a white shirt, and a light mauve tie with tiny mottled specks scattered over it. The ring of hair around his head still shone brown with streaks of silver. Out of the passenger side of the huge green sedan in which my parents arrived emerged my mother. Her hair was neatly combed, her cheeks aglow with the pinkish lipstick she had used her fingers to pat onto them, her mouth a lovely shade of light coral, and her glasses set just so across her nose. A floral silk blouse crawled out of the top of her dark pink jacket and spilled a bow onto her chest. They were early.
Always excited to see my parents, I had been preparing dinner for them; but, it was far from ready when I peeked out through the curtains in my kitchen to see their arriving car. I could not quite remember where my children were. Seeing them was always the most prominent part of a visit from grandparents. It seemed to be that my three children were grown, but that could not be possible. There was in me a growing longing to touch my mother, as though I had not for many years. A curious joy whispered to me that Mother was still alive, as the worrisome knowledge that this could not be true nudged at my subconscious. From somewhere deep within me, an argument arose. The essence of it was that my parents were both dead, but my heart beat with such expectation at seeing them that I refused to understand. Here they were, my beloved parents in their mid-sixties, getting out of their car, come for a visit. Phantoms of what used to be, bringing with them the innocence that had now been defiled. I did not merely want to grasp the visages, but to return to a time when they were safe, hearts unbroken, lives unscathed and I could feel the oneness of family and home again.
The sun shone on my parents as they walked toward my door, a creamy ethereal glow that emitted a warmth that drew me to it. I wanted to bathe in its silky comfort.
"They are gone." Consciousness slowly winning over sleep. "They are both gone." Traveling bit by bit back to the reality of the hotel comforter, the darkness of a strange room, and the perplexing realization of loss experienced anew, I fought the knowledge that wakefulness would surely confirm. Like the taste of honey lingering on the tongue, the joy of seeing my parents hovered sweetly around my heart until I had fully awakened.
The truth was that I had slept at a Hilton Inn on King Street in Alexandria, Virginia, third floor, with a window that gave a harried view of the nearby metro station. Bill and I were there to see Heather, her two sons and our son-in-law, who had met us at Reagan Airport only a few short hours before. Lots of hugs and kisses. Joy at the touch of a little warm boy-hand in each of ours. Life had come around. Thus the dream, I suppose. The languishing emotion created by the virtual encounter with my parents stung, and as I rolled over onto my back in the hotel bed, I allowed the wistful tears to spill onto my pillow. My heart caught just a little with a silent sob that momentarily took my breath. I wished I had not lost both of my parents so profoundly; wished I could undo all that can never be changed. I was wishing my father had not forever reconfigured our family history...wishing...wishing....wishing. I wanted my mother to hold me again, wanted her to call me "precious." I could almost feel the strands of her silky hair as I combed it once again, and I wanted to hear her pray, listening as she concluded her conversation with her God with: "You are holy, holy, holy." I was wanting the father to return who was my hero and not the man next door whose face appears on internet websites exposing sexual predators. Ohhh....wanting.
Lying there, I realized that I had not dreamt of my parents together since their deaths. That seemed a hopeful sign. As my tears gave way
to an unsettled peace, I remembered with an ache for "home" that can never be fully eased on earth that there is a place where there are no more tears and all is washed in eternal brilliance. The past is cleansed in purifying blood and the future assured by a wounded, risen Lamb. A flowing river rushes, robust and teeming with life, from a throne room awash in emerald light as multitudes of saints and angels bask in the greatness of their God, singing and chanting, as they extol His immutable attributes. Jewels which decorate the city walls shoot myriad rainbows of color onto the transparent streets of pure gold, lighting up heaven with unending beauty. And perhaps, there, in the midst, stand Jim and Flossie, golden and new, seeing each other now as reborn and timeless. Old things have passed away; all things have become new.
Always excited to see my parents, I had been preparing dinner for them; but, it was far from ready when I peeked out through the curtains in my kitchen to see their arriving car. I could not quite remember where my children were. Seeing them was always the most prominent part of a visit from grandparents. It seemed to be that my three children were grown, but that could not be possible. There was in me a growing longing to touch my mother, as though I had not for many years. A curious joy whispered to me that Mother was still alive, as the worrisome knowledge that this could not be true nudged at my subconscious. From somewhere deep within me, an argument arose. The essence of it was that my parents were both dead, but my heart beat with such expectation at seeing them that I refused to understand. Here they were, my beloved parents in their mid-sixties, getting out of their car, come for a visit. Phantoms of what used to be, bringing with them the innocence that had now been defiled. I did not merely want to grasp the visages, but to return to a time when they were safe, hearts unbroken, lives unscathed and I could feel the oneness of family and home again.
The sun shone on my parents as they walked toward my door, a creamy ethereal glow that emitted a warmth that drew me to it. I wanted to bathe in its silky comfort.
"They are gone." Consciousness slowly winning over sleep. "They are both gone." Traveling bit by bit back to the reality of the hotel comforter, the darkness of a strange room, and the perplexing realization of loss experienced anew, I fought the knowledge that wakefulness would surely confirm. Like the taste of honey lingering on the tongue, the joy of seeing my parents hovered sweetly around my heart until I had fully awakened.
The truth was that I had slept at a Hilton Inn on King Street in Alexandria, Virginia, third floor, with a window that gave a harried view of the nearby metro station. Bill and I were there to see Heather, her two sons and our son-in-law, who had met us at Reagan Airport only a few short hours before. Lots of hugs and kisses. Joy at the touch of a little warm boy-hand in each of ours. Life had come around. Thus the dream, I suppose. The languishing emotion created by the virtual encounter with my parents stung, and as I rolled over onto my back in the hotel bed, I allowed the wistful tears to spill onto my pillow. My heart caught just a little with a silent sob that momentarily took my breath. I wished I had not lost both of my parents so profoundly; wished I could undo all that can never be changed. I was wishing my father had not forever reconfigured our family history...wishing...wishing....wishing. I wanted my mother to hold me again, wanted her to call me "precious." I could almost feel the strands of her silky hair as I combed it once again, and I wanted to hear her pray, listening as she concluded her conversation with her God with: "You are holy, holy, holy." I was wanting the father to return who was my hero and not the man next door whose face appears on internet websites exposing sexual predators. Ohhh....wanting.
Lying there, I realized that I had not dreamt of my parents together since their deaths. That seemed a hopeful sign. As my tears gave way
to an unsettled peace, I remembered with an ache for "home" that can never be fully eased on earth that there is a place where there are no more tears and all is washed in eternal brilliance. The past is cleansed in purifying blood and the future assured by a wounded, risen Lamb. A flowing river rushes, robust and teeming with life, from a throne room awash in emerald light as multitudes of saints and angels bask in the greatness of their God, singing and chanting, as they extol His immutable attributes. Jewels which decorate the city walls shoot myriad rainbows of color onto the transparent streets of pure gold, lighting up heaven with unending beauty. And perhaps, there, in the midst, stand Jim and Flossie, golden and new, seeing each other now as reborn and timeless. Old things have passed away; all things have become new.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
2010
The man sat picking desultory scraps of hay from the matted hairs on his forearm. He stretched, yawning, and was struck by the fetid stench of his own breath. The crow of a rooster had awakened him, and his eyes squinted involuntarily against the bright rays of the early morning sun streaming in through the loosened, rotting boards of the old barn which he had called home for the past few days. "Hungry." His first thought in the morning; the constant of his day; the aching reality of his life as he lay down, head on meager backpack, each lonely, desolate night. Trapped by the consequences of his own choices, he had stumbled into middle age, a miserable failure. Had the farmer not allowed him to feed the pigs and sleep in the barn, the man would have had no shelter to shield him from the chilly nights.
Once a day, the farmer would deliver a large basket of scraps from his table, and the man picked through them to find any edible orts to satisfy the rumbling chasm that swirled and sucked his life from him, leaving his body emaciated and his soul unsettled. He had walked the streets of the city for months, begging for food or coins; however, the patience and generosity of the passers-by had grown thin and no one took notice of him there anymore except for disdaining his rancid presence as he loitered in the roadway. And, rightly so. Lice fell from his shoulder-length hair onto the collar of his ragged striped tunic, and the putrid odor of his unwashed flesh heralded his approach from many steps away. Beneath his overgrown beard were sores, picked and itching, pocketing pus that dried into yellow beads upon his whiskers when he scratched them with his ragged fingernails. The man, once young and rich, was now anathema. How had he come to this?
The man's father had let him go, unwilling to bind a son to him who wished his father dead. The child did not want the father's business nor the father's oversight. He just wanted out - out into the world to live as he pleased. Wanted his share of the father's fortune now. Did not want to wait for the father to die. Love cannot be coerced, so the father watched his beloved child walk away.
There was another son. An older one who had stayed. Done the right thing. Always. Never complained. Worked hard. Took up the slack. Slaved in the fields to keep the family business running in order to guard his own inheritance from ruin. He prided himself on being the "good" one; the one who could be counted upon to always do the right thing. But, there was no joy in it, especially since his brother had made his work load twice as burdensome. His brother! Lying with prostitutes! Stuffing himself with rich foods! Drinking himself into a stupor! Throwing his money around and his life away! He would never do that!
But a stream flowed deeply within this older brother,stagnating with resentment and jealousy; for, he was bound to his father's house while his younger brother was free to do whatever he pleased. Inequity bred contempt and the older brother smoldered with it as he plowed his father's fields and fed his father's herds, all the while conjuring in his mind the pleasures in which his brother indulged himself.
Perhaps it took his leaving in rebellion and abject deprivation of respect and compassion for the younger son to realize his need of his father's love. In his youth he had despised the many parameters of his life and had viewed his father as embarrassingly out of touch with the world that existed beyond the borders of their mundane existence. Life on his own terms had proven expensive - left his pockets and his soul empty and sullied. Penniless and miserable, having wasted a fortune and the best years of his life, the wayward son became homesick. On this particular morning, the daydream of going home became an urgent need. Sitting on a log with his feet in the mud and slop of the sty next to which he slept, watching the lazy sow roll contentedly in the residue of her own feces and the offal of her pen, the young man came to his senses. He saw himself as he was; knew what he had become in a way he had not fathomed before. And all he could think of was home. His father. Food. A bed. And, perhaps, forgiveness. Maybe his father would hire him to work the fields - would not turn him away. This younger son began at that moment to form a speech to his dad. "Father, I have sinned against you and against heaven. I have done all the wrong things. I know I am not worthy to be called your son anymore, but would you consider hiring me to work, to serve you?"
With this resolve and the hope of home, the man left behind the detritus of the life he had so craved. It was a long journey back, and with each passing mile came deep doubts about his ability to make it and an even deeper resolve to try. With each footstep he practiced his "repentance" speech. It had been many years since he had seen or spoken to his elderly father - many years since he had even thought of him. "Father, I have sinned against you..." The words became the rhythym of his journey.
Ever waiting. Ever hoping. At dawn and at sunset, the father daily walked the path leading from his palatial home to the main road, the aching for his wayward son driving him to search the horizon for his boy's familiar gait. Love drove the father. Hope kept the love ever aflame. As the sun disappeared on the horizon and the sky burst with golden orange brilliance before giving way to starlight, the father would bow his head and turn toward home and vow to stand sentinel anew at dawn.
It was in the late afternoon that the son neared home. From his stance on a distant hill, the man looked out over the landscape and his eyes drank in the emerald green fields now deepening in color with the setting sun. Flocks dotted the leas, making them look like a piece of mottled cloth that stretched out for miles. He had stopped for a minute, and he set down his backpack. With both hands he tried to comb through the tangled mess of dark curly hair that moved gently on his head in the light evening breeze. He brushed the lice and dandruff from his tattered cloak and fluffed his chest-length beard. Taking once again his backpack to his shoulder and pulling himself up to his full height, he rehearsed his speech aloud as his heart beat furiously in his chest. "Father, I have sinned against you..." and his feet moved closer to the house now backlit by the glory of the evening sunset.
Something in the distance stopped the father at his gate - made his breath come in quick, short spurts. Dare he hope after all these years? As the form approached, the father saw the uneven slope of the shoulders and the hesitant short strides of a man walking across the fields toward him. Closer and closer the figure came, pulled forward by the heartbeat of his father. " It is my son!! " The realization energized his feet, and the father forgot himself as he ran toward his dejected boy making his way across the meadow. Velvet robes flying, leaving the heavy aroma of sweet incense wafting in the air, sandals patting the dusty earth beneath his feet, an anxious, joyful, smiling father nearly collided with his homeless, filthy son.
"Father," began the boy, "I have sinned against you and against...." He was unable to finish, for his father covered his rancid face in kisses and hugged his reeking body to his chest. "My son! My son!!" was all he could say as he held his boy's face in his hands and cried.
"I am so dirty..."
"Bring him a robe!" the father commanded a nearby servant.
"I've been so wrong and am not worthy..."
"Bring him a ring for his finger," the father's imperative. "For this is my son!"
"I am so hungry..."
"Kill us a nice fat calf and let's feast! My son was lost and is now found. My son was dead but is alive to me again!" That was all that mattered.
In the fields, the rays of the setting sun were disappearing behind the hillside horizon as the older brother packed his scythe and hoe upon the back of his donkey. The sweat of the noontime sun still clung to his tunic and made a salty covering that had settled into his black whiskers and onto his weathered, sun-burned cheeks. The man stood erect, stretching his aching back, and looked toward his house in anticipation of a quiet dinner and soft white sheets. His life had a pattern - a definite tempo to it that had become almost immutable. Sameness ruled his every moment. Up early, out to the fields, work until dark, dinner, sleep - up early, out to the fields - never changing. Life had not ever been the same for his father since his younger son left home; but, years had now passed without a direct word from him. Of course they had heard, though, about his younger brother's carousing and drinking, as his exploits were infamous. God only knew what had happened to him. Only God and the kid's father really cared.
The man bent to pick up the reins then wearily guided his donkey down the hill. Lights were glowing from all the windows in the house, dimming the brilliance of the stars overhead; and, as the older brother approached, he heard an irritating, noisy din that drew him in confusion toward what must be some sort of celebration. The aroma of barbecued meat piqued his hunger, making him salivate involuntarily. He could not think what had happened since he left that morning to make the mansion quake with such merriment.
Half-drunk, bright-eyed and greasy-faced, the older brother's stable hand met him as he neared. "Sir! Your brother is here!" Taking the reins from his master's hand, the servant continued. "He came in the early evening. Your father has called together all the friends and family to celebrate!"
Immovable, the man stood brooding and enraged as he watched his servant head to the stable. All these years - these long years of months and days and hours of sweat and labor and duty and now our father kills a calf I raised to feed this disgusting, homeless profligate whose life has caused such derision to come to our family and has hurt countless people! How could Father just let him come home ? How is that fair ?" There was no way he was going to be a part of that party.
As soon as the Father heard of his older son's arrival from the fields, he ran to greet him with the news of his younger brother's return. The Father tried to put his hand on his son's shoulder but was rebuffed as the son shook off the embrace. "What is all this commotion I hear? Your worthless son has come home to a party? Never have I had such a party with my friends!" Venomously he spit the words at his father. "I will not celebrate his sin! "
"All I have is yours," said his father, ignoring the hostility that had made his son cringe in rage. "You could have partied with your friends at any time." The father put his weathered hand on the shoulder of his righteous son and felt the wrath as it made his son's body tremble. "We must celebrate today because the son I thought dead is alive!"
How many years does the profligate live before the Father no longer looks for him to come home? Is eighty-four too many? How many people does the wayward child injure, wound or even ruin before the Father will no longer love him? Forty? If the son or daughter does not appear on the horizon until he or she is desperate, with no other possible hope, is it then too late, for the child has worn too thin the love, grace and compassion of the Father? Is the self-righteous child who has joylessly slaved to be good enough out of duty all of her life, all the while despising the sinful freedom of her brother, any better herself for having stayed yet not having loved the Father? Only duty?
All along, that is what Daddy needed. A Father. One who would not abandon or abuse him. The understanding that Daddy despicably used and ruined boys is nauseatingly heartbreaking to me. It is not something I have the power to understand, much less forgive. I was not there when Daddy was abused, used by a passing stranger then discarded. But God saw, and I believe in order to redeem that situation, my heavenly Father would wait until Daddy was eighty-four and had "come to his senses" to right the wrong done to him when he was a twelve-year-old victim of abuse, if that is how long it took. That same Father waits at twilight and at dawn for the restoration and redemption of every child my father abused, hurt, ruined, because He was there aching over the sins of my father. I was not there when Daddy was stripped of his willfulness in the glaring light of who he had become, so I cannot say with certainty that he was ultimately redeemed. Of course, I do not know my father's heart, but I do know the heart of my heavenly Father, and it is waiting for the lost to come home.
I am aware as I write this that there are those reading who believe that my father was irredeemable. I do not know where God draws the line, or if He does. I do know that God is looking for a repentant heart, and I can only pray that as Daddy stepped, in that eternal moment, from this life into the next, he finally held the hand of his Father in the journey.
Once a day, the farmer would deliver a large basket of scraps from his table, and the man picked through them to find any edible orts to satisfy the rumbling chasm that swirled and sucked his life from him, leaving his body emaciated and his soul unsettled. He had walked the streets of the city for months, begging for food or coins; however, the patience and generosity of the passers-by had grown thin and no one took notice of him there anymore except for disdaining his rancid presence as he loitered in the roadway. And, rightly so. Lice fell from his shoulder-length hair onto the collar of his ragged striped tunic, and the putrid odor of his unwashed flesh heralded his approach from many steps away. Beneath his overgrown beard were sores, picked and itching, pocketing pus that dried into yellow beads upon his whiskers when he scratched them with his ragged fingernails. The man, once young and rich, was now anathema. How had he come to this?
The man's father had let him go, unwilling to bind a son to him who wished his father dead. The child did not want the father's business nor the father's oversight. He just wanted out - out into the world to live as he pleased. Wanted his share of the father's fortune now. Did not want to wait for the father to die. Love cannot be coerced, so the father watched his beloved child walk away.
There was another son. An older one who had stayed. Done the right thing. Always. Never complained. Worked hard. Took up the slack. Slaved in the fields to keep the family business running in order to guard his own inheritance from ruin. He prided himself on being the "good" one; the one who could be counted upon to always do the right thing. But, there was no joy in it, especially since his brother had made his work load twice as burdensome. His brother! Lying with prostitutes! Stuffing himself with rich foods! Drinking himself into a stupor! Throwing his money around and his life away! He would never do that!
But a stream flowed deeply within this older brother,stagnating with resentment and jealousy; for, he was bound to his father's house while his younger brother was free to do whatever he pleased. Inequity bred contempt and the older brother smoldered with it as he plowed his father's fields and fed his father's herds, all the while conjuring in his mind the pleasures in which his brother indulged himself.
Perhaps it took his leaving in rebellion and abject deprivation of respect and compassion for the younger son to realize his need of his father's love. In his youth he had despised the many parameters of his life and had viewed his father as embarrassingly out of touch with the world that existed beyond the borders of their mundane existence. Life on his own terms had proven expensive - left his pockets and his soul empty and sullied. Penniless and miserable, having wasted a fortune and the best years of his life, the wayward son became homesick. On this particular morning, the daydream of going home became an urgent need. Sitting on a log with his feet in the mud and slop of the sty next to which he slept, watching the lazy sow roll contentedly in the residue of her own feces and the offal of her pen, the young man came to his senses. He saw himself as he was; knew what he had become in a way he had not fathomed before. And all he could think of was home. His father. Food. A bed. And, perhaps, forgiveness. Maybe his father would hire him to work the fields - would not turn him away. This younger son began at that moment to form a speech to his dad. "Father, I have sinned against you and against heaven. I have done all the wrong things. I know I am not worthy to be called your son anymore, but would you consider hiring me to work, to serve you?"
With this resolve and the hope of home, the man left behind the detritus of the life he had so craved. It was a long journey back, and with each passing mile came deep doubts about his ability to make it and an even deeper resolve to try. With each footstep he practiced his "repentance" speech. It had been many years since he had seen or spoken to his elderly father - many years since he had even thought of him. "Father, I have sinned against you..." The words became the rhythym of his journey.
Ever waiting. Ever hoping. At dawn and at sunset, the father daily walked the path leading from his palatial home to the main road, the aching for his wayward son driving him to search the horizon for his boy's familiar gait. Love drove the father. Hope kept the love ever aflame. As the sun disappeared on the horizon and the sky burst with golden orange brilliance before giving way to starlight, the father would bow his head and turn toward home and vow to stand sentinel anew at dawn.
It was in the late afternoon that the son neared home. From his stance on a distant hill, the man looked out over the landscape and his eyes drank in the emerald green fields now deepening in color with the setting sun. Flocks dotted the leas, making them look like a piece of mottled cloth that stretched out for miles. He had stopped for a minute, and he set down his backpack. With both hands he tried to comb through the tangled mess of dark curly hair that moved gently on his head in the light evening breeze. He brushed the lice and dandruff from his tattered cloak and fluffed his chest-length beard. Taking once again his backpack to his shoulder and pulling himself up to his full height, he rehearsed his speech aloud as his heart beat furiously in his chest. "Father, I have sinned against you..." and his feet moved closer to the house now backlit by the glory of the evening sunset.
Something in the distance stopped the father at his gate - made his breath come in quick, short spurts. Dare he hope after all these years? As the form approached, the father saw the uneven slope of the shoulders and the hesitant short strides of a man walking across the fields toward him. Closer and closer the figure came, pulled forward by the heartbeat of his father. " It is my son!! " The realization energized his feet, and the father forgot himself as he ran toward his dejected boy making his way across the meadow. Velvet robes flying, leaving the heavy aroma of sweet incense wafting in the air, sandals patting the dusty earth beneath his feet, an anxious, joyful, smiling father nearly collided with his homeless, filthy son.
"Father," began the boy, "I have sinned against you and against...." He was unable to finish, for his father covered his rancid face in kisses and hugged his reeking body to his chest. "My son! My son!!" was all he could say as he held his boy's face in his hands and cried.
"I am so dirty..."
"Bring him a robe!" the father commanded a nearby servant.
"I've been so wrong and am not worthy..."
"Bring him a ring for his finger," the father's imperative. "For this is my son!"
"I am so hungry..."
"Kill us a nice fat calf and let's feast! My son was lost and is now found. My son was dead but is alive to me again!" That was all that mattered.
In the fields, the rays of the setting sun were disappearing behind the hillside horizon as the older brother packed his scythe and hoe upon the back of his donkey. The sweat of the noontime sun still clung to his tunic and made a salty covering that had settled into his black whiskers and onto his weathered, sun-burned cheeks. The man stood erect, stretching his aching back, and looked toward his house in anticipation of a quiet dinner and soft white sheets. His life had a pattern - a definite tempo to it that had become almost immutable. Sameness ruled his every moment. Up early, out to the fields, work until dark, dinner, sleep - up early, out to the fields - never changing. Life had not ever been the same for his father since his younger son left home; but, years had now passed without a direct word from him. Of course they had heard, though, about his younger brother's carousing and drinking, as his exploits were infamous. God only knew what had happened to him. Only God and the kid's father really cared.
The man bent to pick up the reins then wearily guided his donkey down the hill. Lights were glowing from all the windows in the house, dimming the brilliance of the stars overhead; and, as the older brother approached, he heard an irritating, noisy din that drew him in confusion toward what must be some sort of celebration. The aroma of barbecued meat piqued his hunger, making him salivate involuntarily. He could not think what had happened since he left that morning to make the mansion quake with such merriment.
Half-drunk, bright-eyed and greasy-faced, the older brother's stable hand met him as he neared. "Sir! Your brother is here!" Taking the reins from his master's hand, the servant continued. "He came in the early evening. Your father has called together all the friends and family to celebrate!"
Immovable, the man stood brooding and enraged as he watched his servant head to the stable. All these years - these long years of months and days and hours of sweat and labor and duty and now our father kills a calf I raised to feed this disgusting, homeless profligate whose life has caused such derision to come to our family and has hurt countless people! How could Father just let him come home ? How is that fair ?" There was no way he was going to be a part of that party.
As soon as the Father heard of his older son's arrival from the fields, he ran to greet him with the news of his younger brother's return. The Father tried to put his hand on his son's shoulder but was rebuffed as the son shook off the embrace. "What is all this commotion I hear? Your worthless son has come home to a party? Never have I had such a party with my friends!" Venomously he spit the words at his father. "I will not celebrate his sin! "
"All I have is yours," said his father, ignoring the hostility that had made his son cringe in rage. "You could have partied with your friends at any time." The father put his weathered hand on the shoulder of his righteous son and felt the wrath as it made his son's body tremble. "We must celebrate today because the son I thought dead is alive!"
How many years does the profligate live before the Father no longer looks for him to come home? Is eighty-four too many? How many people does the wayward child injure, wound or even ruin before the Father will no longer love him? Forty? If the son or daughter does not appear on the horizon until he or she is desperate, with no other possible hope, is it then too late, for the child has worn too thin the love, grace and compassion of the Father? Is the self-righteous child who has joylessly slaved to be good enough out of duty all of her life, all the while despising the sinful freedom of her brother, any better herself for having stayed yet not having loved the Father? Only duty?
All along, that is what Daddy needed. A Father. One who would not abandon or abuse him. The understanding that Daddy despicably used and ruined boys is nauseatingly heartbreaking to me. It is not something I have the power to understand, much less forgive. I was not there when Daddy was abused, used by a passing stranger then discarded. But God saw, and I believe in order to redeem that situation, my heavenly Father would wait until Daddy was eighty-four and had "come to his senses" to right the wrong done to him when he was a twelve-year-old victim of abuse, if that is how long it took. That same Father waits at twilight and at dawn for the restoration and redemption of every child my father abused, hurt, ruined, because He was there aching over the sins of my father. I was not there when Daddy was stripped of his willfulness in the glaring light of who he had become, so I cannot say with certainty that he was ultimately redeemed. Of course, I do not know my father's heart, but I do know the heart of my heavenly Father, and it is waiting for the lost to come home.
I am aware as I write this that there are those reading who believe that my father was irredeemable. I do not know where God draws the line, or if He does. I do know that God is looking for a repentant heart, and I can only pray that as Daddy stepped, in that eternal moment, from this life into the next, he finally held the hand of his Father in the journey.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
2000
March 4, 2000, was an exceptionally warm day in Washington D.C. Birds chirped their own joy from the branches of the budding cherry trees as the morning sun drank the dew from the nascent greening grass that surrounded Capitol Hill Baptist Church. The historic red brick structure stood stoically in the fragrant early morning unaware of the bustling that would soon awaken its creaking stairs and give purpose to its somnolent inner chambers. Flowers would dress the old church in electrifying colors - pink, green, neon orange, yellow, blue and red - making its sanctuary a spring garden worthy of the bride who would soon grace its very center with her groom. Deep in its heart, the church would hover close and listen, as it had a thousand times before, as the bride and her party chattered of love and honeymoons, make-up and panty hose, and mothers and in-laws while they zipped up pretty dresses and splashed on sweet perfume. It was Heather's wedding day.
Anticipation stirred up my adrenaline, making my heart beat faster and my brain shift into overdrive. Not only thoughts of the morrow and all its inherent excitement and tasks drove me to pace in wonder, but also the joy of being with friends and family from all over the country who had joined us and were asleep somewhere in the Marriot at that moment. In a gesture of love, toward restoration, my older sister came, with her husband, from Texas. Having my own family around for the first time in years was so healing. During the rehearsal dinner the evening before, I could not keep my eyes off her. We look alike, my older sister and I. She is shorter and usually wears her hair cropped short, but our features are similar. Slumbering, also, in the hotel was Daddy. He had driven from Arlington, Texas, with a young man who rented out one of the rooms in Daddy's house. Daddy had arranged for the two of them to share a room, but I paid for a separate room for his young friend when I discovered Daddy's plans. Marlana had come with her husband and their two youngest children. Friends from Los Angeles, Atlanta, and Wichita Falls, Texas, were also nestled in the quiet of pre-dawn in their rooms.
My younger sister could not make it but she sent a letter that was so precious to me that I kept it. In part, she wrote: "I'm mostly sorry (that I cannot come to the wedding) because it seems like the wedding might have been a good time just to show up, be present with you, help some, and start the process of getting back in touch with each other. I really do hope that you'll know, despite my absence, that I'm marking this very important event in your life with you. I think about you, and about Heather, so often, and about what it must be like to really let her go forward in this way. I know you'll give her a great and memorable send off into the next phase of her life, and I'm truly sorry that I won't be there to see it, wagging my hankie in my hand. I wish her the best."
I had not seen Daddy before the wedding, as he had arrived late in the evening on Friday. Because the wedding party had to be at the church for flowers and pictures, it was not until guests began arriving for the wedding that I greeted my father and his young friend. Though seeing Daddy was awkward, I could not help but be blessed by his desire to drive all the way from Texas to be with us. It took great effort on his part.
At eleven a.m., I came down the aisle on my son's arm and was seated at the front of the church. The moment was surreal, despite all the planning and anticipation. One by one the bridesmaids, dressed in shiny teal blue dresses and carrying enormous multi-colored bouquets, solemnly strode to their places at the altar. When we stood for the bride and turned to see her, gorgeous and radiant in her Oleg Cassini gown, a quick unexpected sob choked me, making me gasp. My baby on her Daddy's arm was beyond beautiful. In a magical moment, Bill gave her to her handsome groom and then sat down beside me.
"How beautiful, the radiant bride, who waits for her groom with his light in her eyes..."came Vanessa's clear, exquisite voice singing God's love song to Heather and Nick, her groom. Lilting, hovering in the dense aura present in the church, like the thick aroma of honeysuckle lingers near the vine on a warm summer morning, each note was almost unbearably sweet. I turned to look at my father and noticed the tears settling into the wrinkles on his rapt face. My family was a mystery to him - my children, as adults, were unknowns. Though my parents had watched a pre-school Vanessa sing into the hair brush she pretended was a microphone, Daddy did not know the beauty of her adult voice. After the wedding, he asked me several times if Vanessa would sing at his funeral when the time came. I had no answer then. The event was a wedding and not his funeral, so I put the question out of my mind.
It was Daddy's plan to leave right after Heather's wedding and drive back to Texas. My sister and her husband, however, wanted the young man with Daddy to at least see some of the sights of D.C., so they left after the reception and took him to the mall and the monuments. Daddy drove off before dawn the next morning without telling me good-bye.
Anticipation stirred up my adrenaline, making my heart beat faster and my brain shift into overdrive. Not only thoughts of the morrow and all its inherent excitement and tasks drove me to pace in wonder, but also the joy of being with friends and family from all over the country who had joined us and were asleep somewhere in the Marriot at that moment. In a gesture of love, toward restoration, my older sister came, with her husband, from Texas. Having my own family around for the first time in years was so healing. During the rehearsal dinner the evening before, I could not keep my eyes off her. We look alike, my older sister and I. She is shorter and usually wears her hair cropped short, but our features are similar. Slumbering, also, in the hotel was Daddy. He had driven from Arlington, Texas, with a young man who rented out one of the rooms in Daddy's house. Daddy had arranged for the two of them to share a room, but I paid for a separate room for his young friend when I discovered Daddy's plans. Marlana had come with her husband and their two youngest children. Friends from Los Angeles, Atlanta, and Wichita Falls, Texas, were also nestled in the quiet of pre-dawn in their rooms.
My younger sister could not make it but she sent a letter that was so precious to me that I kept it. In part, she wrote: "I'm mostly sorry (that I cannot come to the wedding) because it seems like the wedding might have been a good time just to show up, be present with you, help some, and start the process of getting back in touch with each other. I really do hope that you'll know, despite my absence, that I'm marking this very important event in your life with you. I think about you, and about Heather, so often, and about what it must be like to really let her go forward in this way. I know you'll give her a great and memorable send off into the next phase of her life, and I'm truly sorry that I won't be there to see it, wagging my hankie in my hand. I wish her the best."
I had not seen Daddy before the wedding, as he had arrived late in the evening on Friday. Because the wedding party had to be at the church for flowers and pictures, it was not until guests began arriving for the wedding that I greeted my father and his young friend. Though seeing Daddy was awkward, I could not help but be blessed by his desire to drive all the way from Texas to be with us. It took great effort on his part.
At eleven a.m., I came down the aisle on my son's arm and was seated at the front of the church. The moment was surreal, despite all the planning and anticipation. One by one the bridesmaids, dressed in shiny teal blue dresses and carrying enormous multi-colored bouquets, solemnly strode to their places at the altar. When we stood for the bride and turned to see her, gorgeous and radiant in her Oleg Cassini gown, a quick unexpected sob choked me, making me gasp. My baby on her Daddy's arm was beyond beautiful. In a magical moment, Bill gave her to her handsome groom and then sat down beside me.
"How beautiful, the radiant bride, who waits for her groom with his light in her eyes..."came Vanessa's clear, exquisite voice singing God's love song to Heather and Nick, her groom. Lilting, hovering in the dense aura present in the church, like the thick aroma of honeysuckle lingers near the vine on a warm summer morning, each note was almost unbearably sweet. I turned to look at my father and noticed the tears settling into the wrinkles on his rapt face. My family was a mystery to him - my children, as adults, were unknowns. Though my parents had watched a pre-school Vanessa sing into the hair brush she pretended was a microphone, Daddy did not know the beauty of her adult voice. After the wedding, he asked me several times if Vanessa would sing at his funeral when the time came. I had no answer then. The event was a wedding and not his funeral, so I put the question out of my mind.
It was Daddy's plan to leave right after Heather's wedding and drive back to Texas. My sister and her husband, however, wanted the young man with Daddy to at least see some of the sights of D.C., so they left after the reception and took him to the mall and the monuments. Daddy drove off before dawn the next morning without telling me good-bye.
Monday, April 12, 2010
2007
"It takes hope to survivie your personal holocaust, Kay...and to change your direction." The counselor's words had survived the years and tumbled over and over in my mind.
Hope. By definition it involved something for which I must wait. Like seeing the far distant light of an oncoming train, knowing it will probably arrive at the statoin, only there is not schedule it must meet. An unknown estimated time of arrival on the hope train.
"If you ever intend to flourish again, return to your intimate relationships, think about how you can help others, and cultivate a spirituality that transcends yourself, Kay." I had written these words down at the time and prayed for the energy to actually do the inherent imperatives.
Cultivating and maintaining cherished hope was a daunting task, but it became the catalyst for climbing out of my languishing existence and grasping onto the desire to truly live. Early in the process I borrowed hope from Marlana and Bill. On May 31, 2003, my phone rang around nine in the morning. "Hi, Kay. It's Marlana. Are you up?"
"Yes."
"Well, God showed me something this morning, and He gold me to tell you."
"Okay." Always a little afraid of what He might want me to know.
"God has given you a new name."
"Oh."
There is a brief pause in the conversation because I fall silent and my friend perceives my hesitancy. Why would God rename me? What does that even mean?
"Freedom. That's your new name. Freedom."
Marlana cannot see me, but slowly I nod my head up and down as I try to synthesize what this means to me. Never has there been a more counterintuitive moniker given to a child of God. My life, in it brokenness and confusion, was the antithesis of freedom. "Freedom, huh? What do you think that means?" Cannot conceive of it; can only barely hope for it.
"It means He sees you differently than you see yourself. That's for sure!"
Only a few days earlier, for Mother's Day, Vanessa had given me a journal even though she knew I have a pernicious distrust of the things. My fear is that upon my death all will see the perfect mess I was and quit mourning should my family betray my dying wish that my journals be turned to ashes in a bonfire which would send my raw, unedited words floating ubiquitously into a smoky cloud of eternal anonymity. So, it was with great consternation I took a pen from my desk and rescued the journal from under my bed and entered into dialogue on parchment.
May 31, 2003
Freedom is my new name. I accept the name by faith, Lord Jesus, for I awoke this morning looking at the black hole of emptiness brought about by walking away from what I can only describe as addiction. As I embrace my freedom in You, I need much wisdom,grace and work. Take me forward. I have run a worthy race, for sure, but in the wrong direction. How truly, awe-inspiringly ignorant. I wanted to run somewhere so badly it didn't matter if it was the wrong way as long as running made me feel better. Make this crippled athlete a winner - let me run with one goal in min. Hope.
My desire was that God sovereignly show up. I wanted a revolution to brew in me with its genesis in Him - one that stirred me to change. My daily prayer was: "God, I need You to intervene. No bullshit. No pretense. I am not looking for religion. I need You! Authentically." Waited for the lightning bolt, but it never struck.
Two steps forward, three steps back. A frustrating pattern to waylay hope. At first, it was difficult to even glance at all the work before me - like looking into a magnifying mirror and seeing so many flaws at once that I wanted to hide my reflection, giving up on any real beauty flowing from all the imperfections. I could not have dealt with all my neediness in one fell swoop or I would have despaired. Often, early on, when I had time alone I would just lie on the floor or stay in bed much of the day; but, slowly, my deeper reasons for living crept to the fore and I would rally. Matthew Henry once said that "inordinate affection sets the stage for inordinate affliction." Certainly that was my truth.
On June 13, 2003, I dug my hidden journal from its dark home beneath my bed and wrote: Isaiah 50 is so true. "Those who turn to idols, who trust their own light to guide them will lie down on a bed of pain." This turning to find love and adoratoin in anything or anyone else buy You has certainly been painful. Thank You, God, that Your word is so appropriate to me.
Up the mountain - down the mountain. Never seeming to reach the top. Always seeming to fail again. Ten days later, I had to plead for strength again: Here I am again, Lord. What will You do with me? I have no real ability on my own. I will try to get up the hill one more time, but I am not very successful at it. I need more than a push. Sometimes it seems You are the fantasy and this world the only reality, and I seem to need too desperately what the world offers me. Prove Yourself strong for me!
Steadier feet were taking a bit of ground by the end of August. Scripture was my best friend. On August 22, 2003, Psalm 9:10 woke me up: "My God loves me and goes in front of me." Love, unconditional and free, was of course, what I was yearning for and running from. It had taken months for me to entertain the idea that God could deeply, personally, clearly irrationally, love me. I kept repeating over and over..."God loves me."
By spring of 2004, after Daddy's second arreest, I was radically dealing with my heart, dashing to bits whatever remnants of addiction physically and emotionally still clung to me as I struggled forward. One morning in prayer I was reminded of two gifts I had stashed away. They stood between me and real freedom and hope. I had not forgotten them; I loved them, which is why I could not keep them. I climbed the spiral staircase to my bedroom and pulled the treasures from their hiding place. As I held them as idol residue in my hands, there was a painful aching in my chest and a mild hysteria started to build. I could not do this. This one last thing. Panicked, I paced the floor, feeling like a caged animal clawing hopelessly to free itself. I knew what I had to do and I had to do it right at that moment. It felt like a death march as I descended one step at a time from bedroom to living room and then on to the garage where the trash cans were, all the while looking at the little box I was clutching, now tear-soaked in my hand. I opened the lid to the garbage can, closed my eyes, and threw it away. As the lid thudded shut, I ran back to the living room, sprawled out on the carpet and cried.
It was not enough. There was the thought that they were still there, alive somehow in the garbage. Given the chance to kill the enemy or be killed, one should always kill the enemy. "No, God," I wailed. "Please, no!" But again, I knew. Every last vestige of hope for the past had to be annihilated in order for me to move into hope for the future. The gifts were not the enemy, but I was aware they tied me to an idol as surely as a hypodermic needle to a heroin addict. All the other choices had been made. This final one was left. And it was brutal.
Back in the garage, I reached deeply into the pit of the trash can and pulled out the items. Hanging on the wall with the other tools was the sledge hammer. Catching my breath to stifle a sob, I reached for it and headed to the sidewalk at the back of the house. Laying the precious glass gifts down on what was now their sacrificial altar, my tears splashing over the concrete, I raised the hammer and beat them, pulverized them into dust, as I sobbed the loss of what I had held on to and reached forward, in hope, to God alone. Terrified, I knew I was stepping into thin air and God must catch me or I would fall into a great, empty abyss.
Hope. By definition it involved something for which I must wait. Like seeing the far distant light of an oncoming train, knowing it will probably arrive at the statoin, only there is not schedule it must meet. An unknown estimated time of arrival on the hope train.
"If you ever intend to flourish again, return to your intimate relationships, think about how you can help others, and cultivate a spirituality that transcends yourself, Kay." I had written these words down at the time and prayed for the energy to actually do the inherent imperatives.
Cultivating and maintaining cherished hope was a daunting task, but it became the catalyst for climbing out of my languishing existence and grasping onto the desire to truly live. Early in the process I borrowed hope from Marlana and Bill. On May 31, 2003, my phone rang around nine in the morning. "Hi, Kay. It's Marlana. Are you up?"
"Yes."
"Well, God showed me something this morning, and He gold me to tell you."
"Okay." Always a little afraid of what He might want me to know.
"God has given you a new name."
"Oh."
There is a brief pause in the conversation because I fall silent and my friend perceives my hesitancy. Why would God rename me? What does that even mean?
"Freedom. That's your new name. Freedom."
Marlana cannot see me, but slowly I nod my head up and down as I try to synthesize what this means to me. Never has there been a more counterintuitive moniker given to a child of God. My life, in it brokenness and confusion, was the antithesis of freedom. "Freedom, huh? What do you think that means?" Cannot conceive of it; can only barely hope for it.
"It means He sees you differently than you see yourself. That's for sure!"
Only a few days earlier, for Mother's Day, Vanessa had given me a journal even though she knew I have a pernicious distrust of the things. My fear is that upon my death all will see the perfect mess I was and quit mourning should my family betray my dying wish that my journals be turned to ashes in a bonfire which would send my raw, unedited words floating ubiquitously into a smoky cloud of eternal anonymity. So, it was with great consternation I took a pen from my desk and rescued the journal from under my bed and entered into dialogue on parchment.
May 31, 2003
Freedom is my new name. I accept the name by faith, Lord Jesus, for I awoke this morning looking at the black hole of emptiness brought about by walking away from what I can only describe as addiction. As I embrace my freedom in You, I need much wisdom,grace and work. Take me forward. I have run a worthy race, for sure, but in the wrong direction. How truly, awe-inspiringly ignorant. I wanted to run somewhere so badly it didn't matter if it was the wrong way as long as running made me feel better. Make this crippled athlete a winner - let me run with one goal in min. Hope.
My desire was that God sovereignly show up. I wanted a revolution to brew in me with its genesis in Him - one that stirred me to change. My daily prayer was: "God, I need You to intervene. No bullshit. No pretense. I am not looking for religion. I need You! Authentically." Waited for the lightning bolt, but it never struck.
Two steps forward, three steps back. A frustrating pattern to waylay hope. At first, it was difficult to even glance at all the work before me - like looking into a magnifying mirror and seeing so many flaws at once that I wanted to hide my reflection, giving up on any real beauty flowing from all the imperfections. I could not have dealt with all my neediness in one fell swoop or I would have despaired. Often, early on, when I had time alone I would just lie on the floor or stay in bed much of the day; but, slowly, my deeper reasons for living crept to the fore and I would rally. Matthew Henry once said that "inordinate affection sets the stage for inordinate affliction." Certainly that was my truth.
On June 13, 2003, I dug my hidden journal from its dark home beneath my bed and wrote: Isaiah 50 is so true. "Those who turn to idols, who trust their own light to guide them will lie down on a bed of pain." This turning to find love and adoratoin in anything or anyone else buy You has certainly been painful. Thank You, God, that Your word is so appropriate to me.
Up the mountain - down the mountain. Never seeming to reach the top. Always seeming to fail again. Ten days later, I had to plead for strength again: Here I am again, Lord. What will You do with me? I have no real ability on my own. I will try to get up the hill one more time, but I am not very successful at it. I need more than a push. Sometimes it seems You are the fantasy and this world the only reality, and I seem to need too desperately what the world offers me. Prove Yourself strong for me!
Steadier feet were taking a bit of ground by the end of August. Scripture was my best friend. On August 22, 2003, Psalm 9:10 woke me up: "My God loves me and goes in front of me." Love, unconditional and free, was of course, what I was yearning for and running from. It had taken months for me to entertain the idea that God could deeply, personally, clearly irrationally, love me. I kept repeating over and over..."God loves me."
By spring of 2004, after Daddy's second arreest, I was radically dealing with my heart, dashing to bits whatever remnants of addiction physically and emotionally still clung to me as I struggled forward. One morning in prayer I was reminded of two gifts I had stashed away. They stood between me and real freedom and hope. I had not forgotten them; I loved them, which is why I could not keep them. I climbed the spiral staircase to my bedroom and pulled the treasures from their hiding place. As I held them as idol residue in my hands, there was a painful aching in my chest and a mild hysteria started to build. I could not do this. This one last thing. Panicked, I paced the floor, feeling like a caged animal clawing hopelessly to free itself. I knew what I had to do and I had to do it right at that moment. It felt like a death march as I descended one step at a time from bedroom to living room and then on to the garage where the trash cans were, all the while looking at the little box I was clutching, now tear-soaked in my hand. I opened the lid to the garbage can, closed my eyes, and threw it away. As the lid thudded shut, I ran back to the living room, sprawled out on the carpet and cried.
It was not enough. There was the thought that they were still there, alive somehow in the garbage. Given the chance to kill the enemy or be killed, one should always kill the enemy. "No, God," I wailed. "Please, no!" But again, I knew. Every last vestige of hope for the past had to be annihilated in order for me to move into hope for the future. The gifts were not the enemy, but I was aware they tied me to an idol as surely as a hypodermic needle to a heroin addict. All the other choices had been made. This final one was left. And it was brutal.
Back in the garage, I reached deeply into the pit of the trash can and pulled out the items. Hanging on the wall with the other tools was the sledge hammer. Catching my breath to stifle a sob, I reached for it and headed to the sidewalk at the back of the house. Laying the precious glass gifts down on what was now their sacrificial altar, my tears splashing over the concrete, I raised the hammer and beat them, pulverized them into dust, as I sobbed the loss of what I had held on to and reached forward, in hope, to God alone. Terrified, I knew I was stepping into thin air and God must catch me or I would fall into a great, empty abyss.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
2010
Bill.
From His cross, Jesus looked down, blinking back the blood and perspiration that streamed from His forehead and stung His swollen eyes to see only one of His disciples standing there, faithful. Though John did not understand any more fully than the other disciples the events that brought their master to this ignominious, crushing death, the "disciple whom Jesus loved" followed Jesus all the way to His death. Summoned by name, John came close to the blood-soaked wooden cross - close enough to hear the Savior's labored breathing and maybe to be splattered by the sweat of His dying. "Behold, thy Mother." Into trusted, constant, reliable hands, Jesus committed His own mother.
Peter should have been there, too. After all, he had seen Jesus heal the lame, give sight to the blind, raise the dead. On a high mountain near Jerusalem Peter and John had seen Jesus transfigured before them, giving over for an instant His earthly body for His heavenly one. The night before the crucifixion, at the Passover meal, Peter proclaimed passionately that he would follow the Lord anywhere! Fight for Him! Then things got hard. Counterintuitive. Peter strikes Malchus, a soldier, with his knife that evening, and severs the officer's ear - an ear Jesus lifts from the ground and restores to Malchus. Clanging swords, Judas and his kiss, loud shouting - all became confusion as Jesus was led away, and Peter could not understand what was going on. He did not see Jesus again until the next morning when he turned and looked into the eyes of his master in the same instant when Peter cursed and denied for the third time that he knew Christ. The morning rooster's crow penetrated the dewy air, and Peter ran in shame to hide.
I am Peter. Bill is John. Faithful. In his own confusion, still following Christ through our crucible of pain. Still loving me when I was unlovable - even absent. He is not perfect. He made some heart-wrenching mistakes in the process with Mother and Daddy; but, Bill never ran away; he just kept looking at Jesus.
And, Bill walked. Miles. And listened with his hand in mine, to my sorrow, heartache and confessions. We tromped about California searching in our conversations for an elusive clarity that would not come full circle. Why? How to repair it all. Mother. What to do with Daddy. No answers. Talking in the same circles in which we walked. Tirelessly, Bill's heart tried to be open - to offer up solutions, or at least, consolations. Lesser men would have removed their walking shoes and grabbed the remote.
When Mother and I brought Daddy home from jail, Bill did not recoil from the sight and touch of him, but endured the guttural wailings of a man sorely in need of mercy when I could bear to hear it no longer. Bill loved Daddy, too; and his love was ripped and tattered as mine was. But Bill saw Daddy's need; was sorry for his great sin, and held the man.
In my time of wandering in the far country of my rebellion, taking my life into my own pitifully ignorant hands and nearly throwing it and my family away, there were times when I wished Bill would "play the man." Maybe he should have. I do not know what would have happened had he gone "gladiator" in the situation. What I understand now is that Bill was clinging desperately to the side of a sinking ship, praying for mercy from a God who alone had the power to right it. Daily, my husband walked alone with God during his lunch break. Touching me was like grasping a dead, withered stick that looks alive until, with the slightest pressure, it disintegrates into brittle, dusty pieces. Bringing life-sap back to me was beyond my man's ability. Only God knew how.
Before the onslaught of cataracting anguish in 1985, my heart was overtaken by my God and my husband. I was desperately in love with both. Imagining I could feel such cavernous estrangement from them was impossible. I would never change! Like Peter, I would swear to stay the course! Then life sabotaged my journey with a brutal assault, leaving me near death, struggling for breath, bruised and quaking. Blocking my way now was a mountain of pain, doubt, fear and loss. I could not see around it or over it. Moving past it was too great a task; so much to contemplate that my wounded spirit wished to die rather than even attempt the feat. Shame put its icey fingers around my shoulders and bowed my head, whispering that I had created the mountain somehow and would never conquer its height. Stripped of forward motion, I seemed for years to roam zombie-like in circles doing what I had always done before but with a fractured heart and a perplexity of spirit that I could not even articulate. I did not know what God was doing - could not see that He is good. Already winded from the first collapse of faith, I stood near the rubble mountain and beat my breast as I watched my friends struggle against death and lose. So, in my running from the unconquerable ascent before me, I ran also from Bill. How could he possibly understand and fix what I had not even begun to comprehend myself?
"Please bring her back to You, Father," was the heartcry of my husband. Not "bring her back to me," for in returning to the Father, I would surely find again my love for Bill. They were intrinsically bound together. The day I told him I no longer loved him, he sank down into the deepness of the white overstuffed couch in which he was sitting and deflated. "I don't know what to do, Kay. I can only pray." Swallowing hard, he said, "I would go to hell for you -to know you loved God again." Hell. Forever. I heard what he said, but the extravagant and ferocious love behind those words did not permeate my heart until I had very nearly thrown Bill into Hades.
Like a man with an incurable disease who puts on a happy face for friends and family, Bill rarely revealed his deep concern for our marriage. Walking in faith is quite courageous. There is no falling down and playing dead on the battlefield of trust. One afternoon Marlana came over to pray with and encourage me. My plea was for an authentic relationship with Christ-wanted to know Him as He knows me. Otherwise, it was just a religious exercise that could not change me, much less save me from the mess I had made. I was sincerely not trying to be difficult; I wanted God to reveal Himself to me in my situation. If I were to get over the mountain, it was not going to be on my own power. But, difficult, I was! That day particularly. Before leaving, Marlana found Bill, who had just come home from work, up in our bedroom near the bathroom sink. I followed her at a distance and walked in just as Bill took a sobbing breath and put his head heavily down onto Marlana's shoulder for support. He did not cry - he merely collapsed for a moment. Took refuge in a trusted friend. I tiptoed away, understanding his grief, but unable to assuage it all alone.
From the hotel room where Marlana prayed the night away with me, I went directly to Bill's office. He had no idea where I had gone the day before - where I had spent the night. Hope was shining a very tiny ray of expectation in my fresh-washed soul, exposing a longlost love buried deeply in the detritus of shame and loss. The beginnings of warmth - a remembrance of the joy of touching and being touched by my God and my man. Just a thought, really, that it might be possible to get to the other side and run free again. My fingers worked the numbers on my cell phone, calling Bill out into the parking lot, with hope. Nothing more.
Reticently, Bill walked toward me, wondering at my disheveled appearance and swollen eyes. I took his large familiar hands in mine. "I hope we can start over. I know I have a long way to go."
Tears sparkled in my man's eyes and he grabbed me, kissed me and held me tightly. "I have prayed so hard for this moment." Into my ear he said, "Yes. Yes, we can start over."
With all my heart I wish I could say from that day forward we took up where we had left off in 1985. But, I had so much work to do. For months I read the Bible, profoundly wise books by great Christian authors, and lay on my floor face to the carpet sobbing sin, doubt and fear into its threads. It would seem I made progress up the mountain and then I would slide all the way down again. Hope coaxed me back up onto my feet and I would will myself to try once more. It was during this time I found Micah 7:8-9 in my Bible. "Enemy, do not laugh at me. I have fallen, but I will get up again. I sit in the shadow of trouble now, but the Lord will be a light for me. I sinned against the Lord, so He was angry with me, but He will defend my case in court. He will bring about what is right for me. Then He will bring me out into the light, and I will see Him set things right." This became my life verse. Over and over, hour after hour, I would quote it...begin to believe it.
Bill did not hover over me expecting me to change immediately. There were no daily quizzes about my feelings for him or God. I was only capable of crawling toward the mountain and touching the edges of its base. No running jumps to scale it full on. Surprising emotions would grip me at the most inappropriate times...dinner with the family, a play, during my daily workout...and I would be immobilized. Had Bill expected warmth and wholeness from me immediately, I would have been too overwhelmed, I think, to live.
During those months of prostrating myself, God did make Himself real to me, giving me guidance from the Bible that was nothing short of stunning. Especially these verses from Zechariah 4. "This is the Word of the Lord...'You will not succeed by your own strength or power, but by my Spirit,' says the Lord All-Powerful.
Who are you, big mountain? ...you will become flat, and Zerubbabel will bring out the topmost stone, shouting, 'It's beautiful! It's beautiful!'" Then the Lord spoke His word again: " The people should not think that small beginnings are unimportant." This after I had expressed to God that I thought I would never get up the mountain looming before me. It was taking too long and my efforts often counterproductive. After reading these verses I felt a deep assurance that I would, like Zerubbabel, either see the mountain flattened or persevere to its top and find that "It is beautiful!"
Bill had a yearly trip to Las Vegas with his company and I usually drove to meet him there. Hearing from God again seemed virtually a new thing, though entombed and slowly resurrecting were the prayers I used to pray and Bible verses I had memorized dancing around the edges of their grave. Whispers of rebirth that excited me for no small reason. God must still love me. Bill did. No small miracles. All I could talk about was what was going on within me - imperfectly manifesting, but churning and deliberating even in my sleep.At the Mon Ami Gabi restaurant in the Paris hotel on the Strip, Bill listened to me for endless hours as I tried to synthesize my spiritual journey. Never once did he say, "I already knew that" or "This can't be new to you, Kay. You used to teach all of this." No. He listened while I gushed clean water for dirty. Somehow he loved me enough to hear me without judgment.
Bill was my protector in the battle for my life. That is what William means, protector. In war, real men stand, uncowering, and trust their leader, faithfully following orders. They are the kind of men to which other warriors entrust their mothers. I know God loves me. But I will ever be convinced God saved our home because He loves my husband.
Bill.
From His cross, Jesus looked down, blinking back the blood and perspiration that streamed from His forehead and stung His swollen eyes to see only one of His disciples standing there, faithful. Though John did not understand any more fully than the other disciples the events that brought their master to this ignominious, crushing death, the "disciple whom Jesus loved" followed Jesus all the way to His death. Summoned by name, John came close to the blood-soaked wooden cross - close enough to hear the Savior's labored breathing and maybe to be splattered by the sweat of His dying. "Behold, thy Mother." Into trusted, constant, reliable hands, Jesus committed His own mother.
Peter should have been there, too. After all, he had seen Jesus heal the lame, give sight to the blind, raise the dead. On a high mountain near Jerusalem Peter and John had seen Jesus transfigured before them, giving over for an instant His earthly body for His heavenly one. The night before the crucifixion, at the Passover meal, Peter proclaimed passionately that he would follow the Lord anywhere! Fight for Him! Then things got hard. Counterintuitive. Peter strikes Malchus, a soldier, with his knife that evening, and severs the officer's ear - an ear Jesus lifts from the ground and restores to Malchus. Clanging swords, Judas and his kiss, loud shouting - all became confusion as Jesus was led away, and Peter could not understand what was going on. He did not see Jesus again until the next morning when he turned and looked into the eyes of his master in the same instant when Peter cursed and denied for the third time that he knew Christ. The morning rooster's crow penetrated the dewy air, and Peter ran in shame to hide.
I am Peter. Bill is John. Faithful. In his own confusion, still following Christ through our crucible of pain. Still loving me when I was unlovable - even absent. He is not perfect. He made some heart-wrenching mistakes in the process with Mother and Daddy; but, Bill never ran away; he just kept looking at Jesus.
And, Bill walked. Miles. And listened with his hand in mine, to my sorrow, heartache and confessions. We tromped about California searching in our conversations for an elusive clarity that would not come full circle. Why? How to repair it all. Mother. What to do with Daddy. No answers. Talking in the same circles in which we walked. Tirelessly, Bill's heart tried to be open - to offer up solutions, or at least, consolations. Lesser men would have removed their walking shoes and grabbed the remote.
When Mother and I brought Daddy home from jail, Bill did not recoil from the sight and touch of him, but endured the guttural wailings of a man sorely in need of mercy when I could bear to hear it no longer. Bill loved Daddy, too; and his love was ripped and tattered as mine was. But Bill saw Daddy's need; was sorry for his great sin, and held the man.
In my time of wandering in the far country of my rebellion, taking my life into my own pitifully ignorant hands and nearly throwing it and my family away, there were times when I wished Bill would "play the man." Maybe he should have. I do not know what would have happened had he gone "gladiator" in the situation. What I understand now is that Bill was clinging desperately to the side of a sinking ship, praying for mercy from a God who alone had the power to right it. Daily, my husband walked alone with God during his lunch break. Touching me was like grasping a dead, withered stick that looks alive until, with the slightest pressure, it disintegrates into brittle, dusty pieces. Bringing life-sap back to me was beyond my man's ability. Only God knew how.
Before the onslaught of cataracting anguish in 1985, my heart was overtaken by my God and my husband. I was desperately in love with both. Imagining I could feel such cavernous estrangement from them was impossible. I would never change! Like Peter, I would swear to stay the course! Then life sabotaged my journey with a brutal assault, leaving me near death, struggling for breath, bruised and quaking. Blocking my way now was a mountain of pain, doubt, fear and loss. I could not see around it or over it. Moving past it was too great a task; so much to contemplate that my wounded spirit wished to die rather than even attempt the feat. Shame put its icey fingers around my shoulders and bowed my head, whispering that I had created the mountain somehow and would never conquer its height. Stripped of forward motion, I seemed for years to roam zombie-like in circles doing what I had always done before but with a fractured heart and a perplexity of spirit that I could not even articulate. I did not know what God was doing - could not see that He is good. Already winded from the first collapse of faith, I stood near the rubble mountain and beat my breast as I watched my friends struggle against death and lose. So, in my running from the unconquerable ascent before me, I ran also from Bill. How could he possibly understand and fix what I had not even begun to comprehend myself?
"Please bring her back to You, Father," was the heartcry of my husband. Not "bring her back to me," for in returning to the Father, I would surely find again my love for Bill. They were intrinsically bound together. The day I told him I no longer loved him, he sank down into the deepness of the white overstuffed couch in which he was sitting and deflated. "I don't know what to do, Kay. I can only pray." Swallowing hard, he said, "I would go to hell for you -to know you loved God again." Hell. Forever. I heard what he said, but the extravagant and ferocious love behind those words did not permeate my heart until I had very nearly thrown Bill into Hades.
Like a man with an incurable disease who puts on a happy face for friends and family, Bill rarely revealed his deep concern for our marriage. Walking in faith is quite courageous. There is no falling down and playing dead on the battlefield of trust. One afternoon Marlana came over to pray with and encourage me. My plea was for an authentic relationship with Christ-wanted to know Him as He knows me. Otherwise, it was just a religious exercise that could not change me, much less save me from the mess I had made. I was sincerely not trying to be difficult; I wanted God to reveal Himself to me in my situation. If I were to get over the mountain, it was not going to be on my own power. But, difficult, I was! That day particularly. Before leaving, Marlana found Bill, who had just come home from work, up in our bedroom near the bathroom sink. I followed her at a distance and walked in just as Bill took a sobbing breath and put his head heavily down onto Marlana's shoulder for support. He did not cry - he merely collapsed for a moment. Took refuge in a trusted friend. I tiptoed away, understanding his grief, but unable to assuage it all alone.
From the hotel room where Marlana prayed the night away with me, I went directly to Bill's office. He had no idea where I had gone the day before - where I had spent the night. Hope was shining a very tiny ray of expectation in my fresh-washed soul, exposing a longlost love buried deeply in the detritus of shame and loss. The beginnings of warmth - a remembrance of the joy of touching and being touched by my God and my man. Just a thought, really, that it might be possible to get to the other side and run free again. My fingers worked the numbers on my cell phone, calling Bill out into the parking lot, with hope. Nothing more.
Reticently, Bill walked toward me, wondering at my disheveled appearance and swollen eyes. I took his large familiar hands in mine. "I hope we can start over. I know I have a long way to go."
Tears sparkled in my man's eyes and he grabbed me, kissed me and held me tightly. "I have prayed so hard for this moment." Into my ear he said, "Yes. Yes, we can start over."
With all my heart I wish I could say from that day forward we took up where we had left off in 1985. But, I had so much work to do. For months I read the Bible, profoundly wise books by great Christian authors, and lay on my floor face to the carpet sobbing sin, doubt and fear into its threads. It would seem I made progress up the mountain and then I would slide all the way down again. Hope coaxed me back up onto my feet and I would will myself to try once more. It was during this time I found Micah 7:8-9 in my Bible. "Enemy, do not laugh at me. I have fallen, but I will get up again. I sit in the shadow of trouble now, but the Lord will be a light for me. I sinned against the Lord, so He was angry with me, but He will defend my case in court. He will bring about what is right for me. Then He will bring me out into the light, and I will see Him set things right." This became my life verse. Over and over, hour after hour, I would quote it...begin to believe it.
Bill did not hover over me expecting me to change immediately. There were no daily quizzes about my feelings for him or God. I was only capable of crawling toward the mountain and touching the edges of its base. No running jumps to scale it full on. Surprising emotions would grip me at the most inappropriate times...dinner with the family, a play, during my daily workout...and I would be immobilized. Had Bill expected warmth and wholeness from me immediately, I would have been too overwhelmed, I think, to live.
During those months of prostrating myself, God did make Himself real to me, giving me guidance from the Bible that was nothing short of stunning. Especially these verses from Zechariah 4. "This is the Word of the Lord...'You will not succeed by your own strength or power, but by my Spirit,' says the Lord All-Powerful.
Who are you, big mountain? ...you will become flat, and Zerubbabel will bring out the topmost stone, shouting, 'It's beautiful! It's beautiful!'" Then the Lord spoke His word again: " The people should not think that small beginnings are unimportant." This after I had expressed to God that I thought I would never get up the mountain looming before me. It was taking too long and my efforts often counterproductive. After reading these verses I felt a deep assurance that I would, like Zerubbabel, either see the mountain flattened or persevere to its top and find that "It is beautiful!"
Bill had a yearly trip to Las Vegas with his company and I usually drove to meet him there. Hearing from God again seemed virtually a new thing, though entombed and slowly resurrecting were the prayers I used to pray and Bible verses I had memorized dancing around the edges of their grave. Whispers of rebirth that excited me for no small reason. God must still love me. Bill did. No small miracles. All I could talk about was what was going on within me - imperfectly manifesting, but churning and deliberating even in my sleep.At the Mon Ami Gabi restaurant in the Paris hotel on the Strip, Bill listened to me for endless hours as I tried to synthesize my spiritual journey. Never once did he say, "I already knew that" or "This can't be new to you, Kay. You used to teach all of this." No. He listened while I gushed clean water for dirty. Somehow he loved me enough to hear me without judgment.
Bill was my protector in the battle for my life. That is what William means, protector. In war, real men stand, uncowering, and trust their leader, faithfully following orders. They are the kind of men to which other warriors entrust their mothers. I know God loves me. But I will ever be convinced God saved our home because He loves my husband.
Bill.
Monday, April 5, 2010
2007
The smell of Daddy clung to his clothes hanging in his closet as my sister and I went through them, sorting things out on this Sunday after his death. There was really not much there. A few shirts and three or four pairs of slacks. A couple pairs of shoes. Underwear and socks in the drawers of a little dresser standing lonely in the corner of his closet. Daddy's straw gardening hat was on a shelf above the clothes rack as was a heavy fur-lined hat with ear flaps that he had purchased in Germany to protect his bald head against the harsh winters there. All but the gardening hat we bundled into bags for the Goodwill truck; my sister wanted it as a reminder of the Daddy who mowed our lawn on hot summer days. The two of us then made a list of the things I needed to accomplish in the next few days when I would be there by myself. She had to leave that afternoon to be back for work on Monday. As the executrix of Daddy's estate, my sister had a daunting task before her; so, I wanted to do all I could before boarding the plane back to California.
The list we compiled included getting in touch with Goodwill, returning Daddy's oxygen machine, going through his paperwork and sorting it, and gifting his motorized wheelchair to the church, which was his wish. I added to the tasks a complete cleaning of his bedroom because I knew my sisters would be coming back and forth to Arlington, and they would need to stay there. The mattress cover had not been changed and the sheets were soiled. So, as soon as I kissed my sister good-bye, I set about scouring Daddy's living area. Three men rented rooms from my father; two, John and Leon, were college students from the Ivory Coast who had lived there since May. The other, Pete, was an older single man who had lived with Daddy for quite some time. All of them loved my father and were heavy-hearted over his death. Because they were home on Sunday afternoon, I elicited their help in turning the big heavy king-sized mattress and moving things around in the room to make if more livable. Then I washed everything except the drapes. My sister and I had already replaced the handicapped toilet seat with a conventional one, so I scrubbed down the bathroom and made it sparkle. With a soft cloth from Daddy's laundry room closet, I used orange oil to polish the furniture, I vacuumed his room and the den; then, I remade the bed with fresh mattress pad and clean, warm sheets.
When I sat down on the bed that evening and looked around at the order that had been restored, I thought of the day Mother and I had first heard of Daddy's arrest. Not knowing what to do, we had set her perfectly ordered home "in order." I breathed deeply, inhaling the aroma of fresh linens and flower-scented disinfectant wafting in from the bathroom and realized that I had done the same thing on this day. I needed to set straight what could be visibly ordered before I tackled the job of arranging Daddy's belongings. My understanding, from his journals, of the scope of his problems was very fresh - less than twenty-four hours old. The physicality of cleaning helped to clear my thoughts.
I did not know how exhausted I was until I became still; and, I was hungry. John and Pete joined me for dinner at a restaurant nearby, and we had the waitress pack up a meal for Leon ,who had been studying. They wanted to talk about my father. John, a Christian, called my father "Daddy" and loved him. His wheelchair, said John, was always parked, with him in it, beside the front door at least thirty minutes before his ride to church came to pick him up, so eager was my father to be there. Daddy's "ride" was his court-appointed chaperone, though my father's tenants did not know this. Daddy loved to sing and John played the guitar, so they would sometimes have small worship services together in the evening. It was John who had found my father short of breath and needing an ambulance before he went to the hospital for the last time. Because my father spoke French and had been in North Africa in the war, the two young men from the Ivory Coast had a special love for their landlord, as French is their native language. I did not tell them about Daddy then. They saw someone engaging and godly. Thought I was so lucky to have such a father. I did have one, once.
Back at Daddy's, the four of us sang songs with Leon and John playing guitars, then I was regaled with stories of the Ivory Coast and shown pictures of John's home and family until late into the night. Leon presented me with gifts - a shirt for my husband, a Cora, which is a stringed-instrument used in the Ivory Coast, and little travel bags with slippers for me and my husband. We had become a little family that day, clinging to each other for the warmth of home that each of us, for whatever reason, was missing.
I was sitting in the middle of the den floor on Monday afternoon. Scattered around me were photographs that I had found in a box in Daddy's bedroom. Beside me were two or three albums of pictures from beneath the coffee table. That morning I had gone through Daddy's desk and organized his paperwork into piles that made sense and then labeled them for my sister. What was extraneous, I had thrown out. The Goodwill truck had been scheduled and the bags for them stacked on the front porch. The church would send someone early Tuesday for the wheelchair, and a young man had already been by to collect the oxygen machine. He was shocked that my father had died - thought Daddy was such a nice old man.
I had moved the sorting process from the bedroom to the den and looking through the pictures was my next endeavor. Not really knowing where to begin, I picked up an unfamiliar album from the stack beside me. Here was a little boy, chubby, wearing a yellow shirt and a big smile. Sitting atop Daddy's lap. Cozy. Safe. Next was a child, dark hair curling angelic around his face. Maybe he was eight or nine. Then a boy dressed in a Superman t-shirt and shorts, sitting snuggled into the pit of my father's arm. No treachery. Who were these children? Of course, I knew none of them. The pictures were not sexual in nature, but appeared to display the love and warmth of this older man for children. Probably taken by a mother or father who had no idea who this grandfatherly gentleman was. It seemed strange to me that his probation officer had never seen these pictures. The freshness of my father's words describing his deepest secrets compounded with the images before me made my stomach churn with that all too familiar queasiness before I had time to leaf through the many pages of the album. I got up and went to the kitchen where I found a large black trash bag. Into it I poured the children and the old man, treachery emblazoned with a smile, to burn in a cremation of fire or to rot with the other garbage outside the city in some dump. No more photographs added to the album of this secret life. That, at least, was now over.
Reticently, I began to lift picture after picture from the stacks around me on the cool linoleum of the den floor. Family. My family chronicled for years in photos. I was struck by the memories of a safer father. I held in my hands for a few minutes an eight-by-ten of my father reading to my daughters. Two little blond-haired girls, ages three and five, were listening as their grandfather read them yet another story book. Vanessa, the younger, leaned over the edge of the big green velvet recliner in which her granddaddy sat and laid her head almost against his chest in order to see the illustrations in the book more clearly. Heather, the older, sat, comfortable, upon her grandfather's knee, her index finger to her rosy mouth and her body lying against his as she lost herself in the story of the little white rabbit. An ache in me for the loss of that father.
There were pictures of Christmases and baby dedications; grandchildren playing in the back yard and relatives now dead; wedding photos mixed in with picnics, trips to Europe, and birthday parties. It was a thoroughly eclectic journey through the past, and it made me yearn in a way that by then seemed intrinsic. Into this array of photographs walked John, just home from class. Fascinated by the faces there on the floor smiling up at him, John asked if he could sit and help me sort them out. I welcomed the company, knowing that the task could become maudlin in a moment's time. I had learned John's family the night before - met them vicariously through the many images and stories he had told. It was time for John to meet our family in the same way. Because of the several visits my sisters had made during the summer to see Daddy, John knew them. He had fun guessing which childhood photo was which of us daughters. He and I made a stack of pictures for each sister and one for me, and I entertained him with stories of our lives as we put the snapshots, one by one, on the appropriate piles. Much of life recorded by the camera was really sweet, untainted in the moment by the darker knowledge of what was. Life, as captured in these memories, is not a straight line. It has many twists and turns, surprises and griefs, joys and setbacks. The photographs so loosely strewn across the den floor revealed, as we picked them up randomly to enjoy them, even in the most conflicted life there are times of purest experience. My father was a homosexual pedophile, but that was not all he was. Other better times defined another better man.
Later that afternoon I went through the glassware in the big hutch with its stained glass doors that Daddy and Mother had brought back from Germany. I packed up the set of blue dishes that Daddy had saved for me - the ones we had eaten from on my birthday in 1985 when Mother announced her impending death. They had arrayed the dining table on many different special occasions, and the dishes were the only thing from the house I really wanted. Handling so much history was emotionally challenging that day. I felt caught in a confusing time warp and did not know what to do with the heaviness of heart that had settled on me by dinnertime. No one was in the house with me, so I picked up my purse and got into my rental car without specific destination - just needed a breather.
I made my way toward the freeway near my father's house and discovered a seafood restaurant near a movie theater complex. Since fried oysters and beer can almost always cheer me up, I pulled into the shopping center and parked the car, mouth already watering. There is no comfort food like that which is fried in lard! While waiting for the fried oysters, I munched on raw ones and drank my cold Coors Light as if it were some sweet nectar from the gods. Lots of deep breaths. A few tears escaping curiously. My body relaxing from the day. I was not quite ready to go back to the house when I finished eating, so I walked to the theater and bought a ticket for 3:10 to Yuma. Transported into the old west with a highly defined story of good and evil, I forgot, for a couple of hours, my own life and how smeared the lines of righteousness and sinfulness can become.
I awoke early the next morning, Tuesday, to the aromas of chicken and tomato sauce wafting in from the kitchen where John was preparing one of his native dishes for me to try before I left for the airport and my return to California. He had told me the night before that he would do this, but he is young and it was early; so, I thought he might sleep through. I got up, took a shower, dressed and followed my nose to the kitchen. Proudly, John showed me how to eat his favorite meal; I did as he did and picked up some chicken and the rice paste with my fingers and popped the tasty concoction into my mouth. It was delicious, tomato-y, greasy fun! The chicken burst with flavor and the experience was laden with love. My little Christian brother from North Africa had blessed me, and I thanked the Lord that He had provided this friendship at such an unsettling time.
Somewhere thousands of feet in the air between Dallas, Texas, and Santa Ana, California, as I flew home that day, I thought to be thankful that my father had always embraced other cultures and our lives had often been enriched by that. He had loved travel, unique foods, learning languages and harboring foreign missionaries in our homes. I had him to thank that I had eaten chocolate-covered ants and tasted brains and eggs and calf's tongue; that I had traveled Europe and taken road trips to Paris and Vienna with him and Mother; that I have a heart for the orphans of Cambodia even now; that the world does not seem too big a place.
The list we compiled included getting in touch with Goodwill, returning Daddy's oxygen machine, going through his paperwork and sorting it, and gifting his motorized wheelchair to the church, which was his wish. I added to the tasks a complete cleaning of his bedroom because I knew my sisters would be coming back and forth to Arlington, and they would need to stay there. The mattress cover had not been changed and the sheets were soiled. So, as soon as I kissed my sister good-bye, I set about scouring Daddy's living area. Three men rented rooms from my father; two, John and Leon, were college students from the Ivory Coast who had lived there since May. The other, Pete, was an older single man who had lived with Daddy for quite some time. All of them loved my father and were heavy-hearted over his death. Because they were home on Sunday afternoon, I elicited their help in turning the big heavy king-sized mattress and moving things around in the room to make if more livable. Then I washed everything except the drapes. My sister and I had already replaced the handicapped toilet seat with a conventional one, so I scrubbed down the bathroom and made it sparkle. With a soft cloth from Daddy's laundry room closet, I used orange oil to polish the furniture, I vacuumed his room and the den; then, I remade the bed with fresh mattress pad and clean, warm sheets.
When I sat down on the bed that evening and looked around at the order that had been restored, I thought of the day Mother and I had first heard of Daddy's arrest. Not knowing what to do, we had set her perfectly ordered home "in order." I breathed deeply, inhaling the aroma of fresh linens and flower-scented disinfectant wafting in from the bathroom and realized that I had done the same thing on this day. I needed to set straight what could be visibly ordered before I tackled the job of arranging Daddy's belongings. My understanding, from his journals, of the scope of his problems was very fresh - less than twenty-four hours old. The physicality of cleaning helped to clear my thoughts.
I did not know how exhausted I was until I became still; and, I was hungry. John and Pete joined me for dinner at a restaurant nearby, and we had the waitress pack up a meal for Leon ,who had been studying. They wanted to talk about my father. John, a Christian, called my father "Daddy" and loved him. His wheelchair, said John, was always parked, with him in it, beside the front door at least thirty minutes before his ride to church came to pick him up, so eager was my father to be there. Daddy's "ride" was his court-appointed chaperone, though my father's tenants did not know this. Daddy loved to sing and John played the guitar, so they would sometimes have small worship services together in the evening. It was John who had found my father short of breath and needing an ambulance before he went to the hospital for the last time. Because my father spoke French and had been in North Africa in the war, the two young men from the Ivory Coast had a special love for their landlord, as French is their native language. I did not tell them about Daddy then. They saw someone engaging and godly. Thought I was so lucky to have such a father. I did have one, once.
Back at Daddy's, the four of us sang songs with Leon and John playing guitars, then I was regaled with stories of the Ivory Coast and shown pictures of John's home and family until late into the night. Leon presented me with gifts - a shirt for my husband, a Cora, which is a stringed-instrument used in the Ivory Coast, and little travel bags with slippers for me and my husband. We had become a little family that day, clinging to each other for the warmth of home that each of us, for whatever reason, was missing.
I was sitting in the middle of the den floor on Monday afternoon. Scattered around me were photographs that I had found in a box in Daddy's bedroom. Beside me were two or three albums of pictures from beneath the coffee table. That morning I had gone through Daddy's desk and organized his paperwork into piles that made sense and then labeled them for my sister. What was extraneous, I had thrown out. The Goodwill truck had been scheduled and the bags for them stacked on the front porch. The church would send someone early Tuesday for the wheelchair, and a young man had already been by to collect the oxygen machine. He was shocked that my father had died - thought Daddy was such a nice old man.
I had moved the sorting process from the bedroom to the den and looking through the pictures was my next endeavor. Not really knowing where to begin, I picked up an unfamiliar album from the stack beside me. Here was a little boy, chubby, wearing a yellow shirt and a big smile. Sitting atop Daddy's lap. Cozy. Safe. Next was a child, dark hair curling angelic around his face. Maybe he was eight or nine. Then a boy dressed in a Superman t-shirt and shorts, sitting snuggled into the pit of my father's arm. No treachery. Who were these children? Of course, I knew none of them. The pictures were not sexual in nature, but appeared to display the love and warmth of this older man for children. Probably taken by a mother or father who had no idea who this grandfatherly gentleman was. It seemed strange to me that his probation officer had never seen these pictures. The freshness of my father's words describing his deepest secrets compounded with the images before me made my stomach churn with that all too familiar queasiness before I had time to leaf through the many pages of the album. I got up and went to the kitchen where I found a large black trash bag. Into it I poured the children and the old man, treachery emblazoned with a smile, to burn in a cremation of fire or to rot with the other garbage outside the city in some dump. No more photographs added to the album of this secret life. That, at least, was now over.
Reticently, I began to lift picture after picture from the stacks around me on the cool linoleum of the den floor. Family. My family chronicled for years in photos. I was struck by the memories of a safer father. I held in my hands for a few minutes an eight-by-ten of my father reading to my daughters. Two little blond-haired girls, ages three and five, were listening as their grandfather read them yet another story book. Vanessa, the younger, leaned over the edge of the big green velvet recliner in which her granddaddy sat and laid her head almost against his chest in order to see the illustrations in the book more clearly. Heather, the older, sat, comfortable, upon her grandfather's knee, her index finger to her rosy mouth and her body lying against his as she lost herself in the story of the little white rabbit. An ache in me for the loss of that father.
There were pictures of Christmases and baby dedications; grandchildren playing in the back yard and relatives now dead; wedding photos mixed in with picnics, trips to Europe, and birthday parties. It was a thoroughly eclectic journey through the past, and it made me yearn in a way that by then seemed intrinsic. Into this array of photographs walked John, just home from class. Fascinated by the faces there on the floor smiling up at him, John asked if he could sit and help me sort them out. I welcomed the company, knowing that the task could become maudlin in a moment's time. I had learned John's family the night before - met them vicariously through the many images and stories he had told. It was time for John to meet our family in the same way. Because of the several visits my sisters had made during the summer to see Daddy, John knew them. He had fun guessing which childhood photo was which of us daughters. He and I made a stack of pictures for each sister and one for me, and I entertained him with stories of our lives as we put the snapshots, one by one, on the appropriate piles. Much of life recorded by the camera was really sweet, untainted in the moment by the darker knowledge of what was. Life, as captured in these memories, is not a straight line. It has many twists and turns, surprises and griefs, joys and setbacks. The photographs so loosely strewn across the den floor revealed, as we picked them up randomly to enjoy them, even in the most conflicted life there are times of purest experience. My father was a homosexual pedophile, but that was not all he was. Other better times defined another better man.
Later that afternoon I went through the glassware in the big hutch with its stained glass doors that Daddy and Mother had brought back from Germany. I packed up the set of blue dishes that Daddy had saved for me - the ones we had eaten from on my birthday in 1985 when Mother announced her impending death. They had arrayed the dining table on many different special occasions, and the dishes were the only thing from the house I really wanted. Handling so much history was emotionally challenging that day. I felt caught in a confusing time warp and did not know what to do with the heaviness of heart that had settled on me by dinnertime. No one was in the house with me, so I picked up my purse and got into my rental car without specific destination - just needed a breather.
I made my way toward the freeway near my father's house and discovered a seafood restaurant near a movie theater complex. Since fried oysters and beer can almost always cheer me up, I pulled into the shopping center and parked the car, mouth already watering. There is no comfort food like that which is fried in lard! While waiting for the fried oysters, I munched on raw ones and drank my cold Coors Light as if it were some sweet nectar from the gods. Lots of deep breaths. A few tears escaping curiously. My body relaxing from the day. I was not quite ready to go back to the house when I finished eating, so I walked to the theater and bought a ticket for 3:10 to Yuma. Transported into the old west with a highly defined story of good and evil, I forgot, for a couple of hours, my own life and how smeared the lines of righteousness and sinfulness can become.
I awoke early the next morning, Tuesday, to the aromas of chicken and tomato sauce wafting in from the kitchen where John was preparing one of his native dishes for me to try before I left for the airport and my return to California. He had told me the night before that he would do this, but he is young and it was early; so, I thought he might sleep through. I got up, took a shower, dressed and followed my nose to the kitchen. Proudly, John showed me how to eat his favorite meal; I did as he did and picked up some chicken and the rice paste with my fingers and popped the tasty concoction into my mouth. It was delicious, tomato-y, greasy fun! The chicken burst with flavor and the experience was laden with love. My little Christian brother from North Africa had blessed me, and I thanked the Lord that He had provided this friendship at such an unsettling time.
Somewhere thousands of feet in the air between Dallas, Texas, and Santa Ana, California, as I flew home that day, I thought to be thankful that my father had always embraced other cultures and our lives had often been enriched by that. He had loved travel, unique foods, learning languages and harboring foreign missionaries in our homes. I had him to thank that I had eaten chocolate-covered ants and tasted brains and eggs and calf's tongue; that I had traveled Europe and taken road trips to Paris and Vienna with him and Mother; that I have a heart for the orphans of Cambodia even now; that the world does not seem too big a place.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
1974
My water broke at midnight, greeting August 3, 1974, with the culmination of a long-awaited birth. Awash with both amniotic fluid and high expectation, I woke a soundly sleeping Bill with the news that our baby was on the way! I had been eyeing my dutifully packed overnight bag for over a week. Finally I could actually use the thing! My very mild contractions were erratic, but my doctor advised us to head for Methodist Hospital in Dallas, a forty-five minute drive from our home. There was a full moon smiling at us from overhead as we wondered if our child would be a boy or a girl. How long would labor be? When do we call our parents?
We arrived at the hospital in the wee hours of the morning expecting to be the only couple there, but labor and delivery was full. Seems the fatness of the evening orb had awakened other babies to life on August 3. Bill and I were neophytes to the birthing process. We had taken all the right classes, but this was the real thing; and, on the way was our actual, breathing, crying baby, not some slippery plastic doll. We had imagined for months what the moment would be like when we met the new human being that our coming together had produced - this person who had been kicking against the darkness and ever-increasing closeness of my womb. We had listened to the baby's beating heart and were familiar with the bulges caused by the child's rolling and punching in my body. Soon there would be a tiny face with eyes looking into ours - a vulnerable little life that we were responsible for shaping. Wonderful and terrifying, at once.
Aside from the continuing seeping of the amniotic fluid, there were no other signs of labor - no contractions at all. Dr. Wilke, my obstetrician, told me to settle in and he would see me later in the morning. Bill stepped outside while the night nurse prepped me for delivery then took me to a semi-dark labor room. Vile cursings and blood-curdling screams emanated from a woman down the hall who sounded as though she were being brutally violated. Primal, uninhibited, the woman pushed against her pain in a gushing forth of agony that made me clinch my teeth to keep from crying out in fear. "Am I going to do that?" I asked the nurse, gripping her arm and turning her toward me.
"You might," she said, too matter-of-factly.
"Oh, no," I whispered as my terror nearly choked me.
"You know, honey," the nurse continued, "I cannot have children. I have always wanted one of my own. So, if you wind up screaming and cursing in order to deliver one into this world, that's okay. Just remember, I would like to have a baby any way I could." Her smile was matronly, if not patronizing, as she patted my hand then left me there to wait for my first birth pangs.
At seven o'clock on the morning of August 3, Dr. Wilke came in and pronounced me "not dilated at all." No contractions - as if my body had been as unnerved by the sounds of birthing down the hall as my heart had. Even the pitocin drip that should have generated contractions served only to irritate the amniotic sac to fully bursting from its confines, leaving me awash, but not with pain.
Bill had slept in the father's room all night - on the floor beneath the telephones. As early as he dared, he had called both sets of parents with the news of my hospitalization. So it was that at eight o'clock that morning Mother and Daddy showed up in the labor room with a crystal vase filled with roses. "Happy birthday, precious," my Mother said.
"Oh, my goodness! I forgot completely that it is my birthday!"
"It looks like you will have a birthday present today, for sure!" said Daddy, eyes dancing, huge smile.
That thought had not seriously crossed my mind. Sharing a birthday with my baby would indeed be a gift. Made me wonder how alike we would be.
Afraid to go very far lest I should deliver while they were away, my parents hovered close to labor and delivery with Bill all that day. By mid-afternoon it was clear that my body did not want to make way for this baby on its own. Fearing infection, Dr. Wilke made the decision to perform a C-section. He left me for a moment to consider the option. I felt tears of disappointment burning to the surface until I remembered the words of the night nurse. "I would like to have a baby any way I could." Blinking back self-pity, concentrating on the joy of holding my newborn, and praying for strength, I readied myself mentally for surgery. When my doctor returned to the room, I had only two questions for him: "Could I still breastfeed? Could I stay awake during the operation so that I could experience the birth fully?"
Yes to both.
As I was prepared for surgery, Bill called his parents, who soon joined mine in the waiting room. By then it was late afternoon. My parents had anxiously paced and waited for almost ten hours, so the news of surgery was disconcerting. They held hands with Bill and prayed. I had no idea that I was quickly becoming a celebrity with the hospital staff because none of them had heard of a woman staying awake during a C-section before. My adrenaline was rushing as the nurses wheeled me into delivery. The fluid that had been injected into my spine first warmed then numbed my body from my rib cage downward. A large metal halo was erected in front of me and covered with a sheet so that I could not actually see the operation as it progressed. I was listening for only one sound - a baby's cry. That was all that mattered as I lay there blind to the purpose of all the bustling of medical personnel about me. The anesthesiologist was seated near my head, to my left, ready to immediately rescue me with some sleeping potion should I for some reason begin to feel the cutting and suturing. Anticipation trumped anxiety. My birthday gift was about to appear, an offering from my own body.
Heather. Eight pounds, seven ounces. Little bald head. Perfectly arched, full red lips. Already curious, looking around. No crying. She seemed to be taking in her surroundings as if to say: "So, this is life. Hmmm." Before they weighed and measured her, the nurses popped her little butt and made her squeal. The violence of it seemed unnecessary to me, and it made me wince. There would be enough in her new world to make her cry eventually; it seemed a bit early for pain.
I watched, transfixed, as the team of nurses wiped the creamy vernix from Heather's soft pink skin, suctioned fluid from her lungs, then wrapped her tightly in a blanket as my doctor closed my incisions. It all seemed to transpire in one breathtaking moment. My eyes could not be sated, so great was their hunger to take in every detail of this wonder from my womb.
Meanwhile, "It's a girl!" was announced in the waiting area, and Bill was summoned back to greet me as I was wheeled out of surgery with our daughter in my arms. The staff stopped the gurney so that father could be properly introduced to daughter. Heather's little eyes were closed tight against the brightness of the lights, and Bill's first question as he touched her tiny fist was: "When do babies open their eyes?" Guffawing nurses broke the magic of the moment. "She's not a puppy, son," cackled one. Ahhh, we had so much to learn.
Mother and Daddy had moved home from Germany for this, their first grandchild. On Christmas of 1973, we had traveled to Corpus Christi for the holidays to be with my sister and her husband. Mother and Daddy had come from Europe, and Bill and I could not wait to present our gift to them. At a Woolworth's, I had found a tiny plastic baby doll which we wrapped in a large box and tied with an extravagant bow. We knew they would not guess its contents, but we were sure there would be no greater gift we could bestow on them. Along with the doll I had written a little riddle in the form of a poem so that they would have to guess the significance of their present. Of course, that was unnecessary, for when they saw the toy baby, they guessed the real one.
Mother and Daddy came to our home to help take care of Heather and me. Mother had brought me a rocking chair, but it was Daddy who would steal Heather from her cradle and sit for hours, holding her in his warm, ample arms, and glide back and forth as he stared lovingly down at her. Awed, he fell in love with his tiny progeny. The tender wonder belied the potential treachery of a baby in his caress. Our first baby, his first grandchild, was a gift to be shared. Though Daddy's penchant was for boys, had we known the "other" father in those days, even our daughters would not have been "safely" placed in his embrace.
I miss the father who read to my children while they sat comfortably on his lap, who tickled them to overflowing laughter, who played endless games with them when they asked, "Just one more time?" Granddaddy. I miss Granddaddy.
We arrived at the hospital in the wee hours of the morning expecting to be the only couple there, but labor and delivery was full. Seems the fatness of the evening orb had awakened other babies to life on August 3. Bill and I were neophytes to the birthing process. We had taken all the right classes, but this was the real thing; and, on the way was our actual, breathing, crying baby, not some slippery plastic doll. We had imagined for months what the moment would be like when we met the new human being that our coming together had produced - this person who had been kicking against the darkness and ever-increasing closeness of my womb. We had listened to the baby's beating heart and were familiar with the bulges caused by the child's rolling and punching in my body. Soon there would be a tiny face with eyes looking into ours - a vulnerable little life that we were responsible for shaping. Wonderful and terrifying, at once.
Aside from the continuing seeping of the amniotic fluid, there were no other signs of labor - no contractions at all. Dr. Wilke, my obstetrician, told me to settle in and he would see me later in the morning. Bill stepped outside while the night nurse prepped me for delivery then took me to a semi-dark labor room. Vile cursings and blood-curdling screams emanated from a woman down the hall who sounded as though she were being brutally violated. Primal, uninhibited, the woman pushed against her pain in a gushing forth of agony that made me clinch my teeth to keep from crying out in fear. "Am I going to do that?" I asked the nurse, gripping her arm and turning her toward me.
"You might," she said, too matter-of-factly.
"Oh, no," I whispered as my terror nearly choked me.
"You know, honey," the nurse continued, "I cannot have children. I have always wanted one of my own. So, if you wind up screaming and cursing in order to deliver one into this world, that's okay. Just remember, I would like to have a baby any way I could." Her smile was matronly, if not patronizing, as she patted my hand then left me there to wait for my first birth pangs.
At seven o'clock on the morning of August 3, Dr. Wilke came in and pronounced me "not dilated at all." No contractions - as if my body had been as unnerved by the sounds of birthing down the hall as my heart had. Even the pitocin drip that should have generated contractions served only to irritate the amniotic sac to fully bursting from its confines, leaving me awash, but not with pain.
Bill had slept in the father's room all night - on the floor beneath the telephones. As early as he dared, he had called both sets of parents with the news of my hospitalization. So it was that at eight o'clock that morning Mother and Daddy showed up in the labor room with a crystal vase filled with roses. "Happy birthday, precious," my Mother said.
"Oh, my goodness! I forgot completely that it is my birthday!"
"It looks like you will have a birthday present today, for sure!" said Daddy, eyes dancing, huge smile.
That thought had not seriously crossed my mind. Sharing a birthday with my baby would indeed be a gift. Made me wonder how alike we would be.
Afraid to go very far lest I should deliver while they were away, my parents hovered close to labor and delivery with Bill all that day. By mid-afternoon it was clear that my body did not want to make way for this baby on its own. Fearing infection, Dr. Wilke made the decision to perform a C-section. He left me for a moment to consider the option. I felt tears of disappointment burning to the surface until I remembered the words of the night nurse. "I would like to have a baby any way I could." Blinking back self-pity, concentrating on the joy of holding my newborn, and praying for strength, I readied myself mentally for surgery. When my doctor returned to the room, I had only two questions for him: "Could I still breastfeed? Could I stay awake during the operation so that I could experience the birth fully?"
Yes to both.
As I was prepared for surgery, Bill called his parents, who soon joined mine in the waiting room. By then it was late afternoon. My parents had anxiously paced and waited for almost ten hours, so the news of surgery was disconcerting. They held hands with Bill and prayed. I had no idea that I was quickly becoming a celebrity with the hospital staff because none of them had heard of a woman staying awake during a C-section before. My adrenaline was rushing as the nurses wheeled me into delivery. The fluid that had been injected into my spine first warmed then numbed my body from my rib cage downward. A large metal halo was erected in front of me and covered with a sheet so that I could not actually see the operation as it progressed. I was listening for only one sound - a baby's cry. That was all that mattered as I lay there blind to the purpose of all the bustling of medical personnel about me. The anesthesiologist was seated near my head, to my left, ready to immediately rescue me with some sleeping potion should I for some reason begin to feel the cutting and suturing. Anticipation trumped anxiety. My birthday gift was about to appear, an offering from my own body.
Heather. Eight pounds, seven ounces. Little bald head. Perfectly arched, full red lips. Already curious, looking around. No crying. She seemed to be taking in her surroundings as if to say: "So, this is life. Hmmm." Before they weighed and measured her, the nurses popped her little butt and made her squeal. The violence of it seemed unnecessary to me, and it made me wince. There would be enough in her new world to make her cry eventually; it seemed a bit early for pain.
I watched, transfixed, as the team of nurses wiped the creamy vernix from Heather's soft pink skin, suctioned fluid from her lungs, then wrapped her tightly in a blanket as my doctor closed my incisions. It all seemed to transpire in one breathtaking moment. My eyes could not be sated, so great was their hunger to take in every detail of this wonder from my womb.
Meanwhile, "It's a girl!" was announced in the waiting area, and Bill was summoned back to greet me as I was wheeled out of surgery with our daughter in my arms. The staff stopped the gurney so that father could be properly introduced to daughter. Heather's little eyes were closed tight against the brightness of the lights, and Bill's first question as he touched her tiny fist was: "When do babies open their eyes?" Guffawing nurses broke the magic of the moment. "She's not a puppy, son," cackled one. Ahhh, we had so much to learn.
Mother and Daddy had moved home from Germany for this, their first grandchild. On Christmas of 1973, we had traveled to Corpus Christi for the holidays to be with my sister and her husband. Mother and Daddy had come from Europe, and Bill and I could not wait to present our gift to them. At a Woolworth's, I had found a tiny plastic baby doll which we wrapped in a large box and tied with an extravagant bow. We knew they would not guess its contents, but we were sure there would be no greater gift we could bestow on them. Along with the doll I had written a little riddle in the form of a poem so that they would have to guess the significance of their present. Of course, that was unnecessary, for when they saw the toy baby, they guessed the real one.
Mother and Daddy came to our home to help take care of Heather and me. Mother had brought me a rocking chair, but it was Daddy who would steal Heather from her cradle and sit for hours, holding her in his warm, ample arms, and glide back and forth as he stared lovingly down at her. Awed, he fell in love with his tiny progeny. The tender wonder belied the potential treachery of a baby in his caress. Our first baby, his first grandchild, was a gift to be shared. Though Daddy's penchant was for boys, had we known the "other" father in those days, even our daughters would not have been "safely" placed in his embrace.
I miss the father who read to my children while they sat comfortably on his lap, who tickled them to overflowing laughter, who played endless games with them when they asked, "Just one more time?" Granddaddy. I miss Granddaddy.
Monday, March 22, 2010
2007
Pensively, I turned the black notebook over in my hands several times before opening it. On this evening of the day of my father's death, I was at his home in his bedroom going over some of the things on his desk. This notebook was the journal Daddy had been keeping for his therapist in his endeavor to deal authentically with his pedophilia. The consternation that further revelation of the extent of Daddy's problem might be too overwhelming made my fingers slowly and gingerly unfold the pages of his confession. There was a disclaimer at the outset. He was eighty-four years old and could not remember every encounter. Following was a list of all the encounters he could recall and as much about the events as was pertinent to the counselor. Particularly, age, relation to Daddy, how he began the sexual encounter or "set it up," and what exactly happened.
Forty. There were forty. That he could remember! Forty lives forever changed. Some were young adults. Others were children from the neighborhood, family members, children of friends, kids he had been trusted to baby sit. The youngest was four. No little boy or young adult male had been safe with my father. His two arrests were only the tip of the iceberg. His revelations of indiscretions included the process by which he would secure relationships with children he molested. Daddy told of a young woman in the neighborhood who was outside often with her son. Daddy made a point of stopping by on one of those sunny afternoons in order to discover the woman's situation. Her boy was all she had. Needed help with chores. My father was happy to help. Caught in his web, her child his prey, my father went on to describe how easy it was to be with the young mother's son alone. Set-up after degrading set-up was revealed. It seems my father was always looking for his golden opportunity.
Replete with descriptions of the actual sexual pleasure he received from some of these encounters, nauseating revelations assaulted me. Even in the retelling of his sexual exploits, it was clear that my father had no real clarity about how his actions were affecting his victims. He described a young child's behavior as "precocious," as if the child could make a decision about his relationship with my father. In his effort to be as honest as possible, the rawness of Daddy's recollections spewed visuals across the pages of his purgings that could only barely be digested. His first conquest began shortly after his own molestation. A boy in his own neighborhood who was slightly younger than the adolescent Jim became his first sexual liason, and it lasted for several years. The army provided other opportunities for his homosexual exploration. Homosexuality and pedophilia were habits of mind and a covert way of life for Daddy by the time he married my mother. Not a day went by, he would later tell me, that he did not long for the company of boys. Craving the love of a man, the fragrance of a father, the praise of a male parent, my father was forever an adolescent heart seeking comfort for his woundedness and bloodying others in the process.
My initial reaction to what I tried to digest from the confessions of my father was a certain awe that we, his family, could have been so betrayed; then, that my father was pathological in his flagrant use of so many others. I wanted to correct if for the forty. Make it go away. How naive of us to think that the only times he had molested children were the times when he was caught! Of course, he had had a life-long addiction.
Secondarily, but rushing in and tripping over the heels of my first thoughts, was disgust. How could he do that? I could not understand his mind! To plot evil and draw innocence into its trap is heinous. The lack of cognizance in Daddy's confessions was crushing. Pedophilia was so integral to his interior landscape that he had to be "reminded" by a court of law and a psycho-therapist that it is wrong!
Copious notes from my father's journal were devoted to answering many times in various ways questions about how his victims must have felt. With great difficulty and minimal clarity at first, Daddy tried to understand how the molested must have reacted. His thinking was oblique, as though some large area of his heart and mind had petrified over the years, making penetration impossible. I could only compare it to losing a thought that could not be conjured again though its retrieval is concentrated upon vigorously. He could not remember what it felt like to be the victim; only the power in being the exploiter. When answering the questions posed by the therapist on this issue, my father's notes became stilted, passionless, as if he were copying down what she told him to write so that he could go back over the notes later and try to decipher their meaning.
Astonishingly, one of Daddy's major purposes for recovery, as stated in his notes, was so that he could have a relationship with his great grandsons, my grandchildren! That gave him heart to move forward. Never would there be a time, had Daddy lived, that he would have been allowed that privilege. Again, his vision was blurred by his inability to face the mirror that reflected to him what was evident to those who possessed clarity. Still he would say to me, " I am what you say I am," as though I pronounced him to be a homosexual pedophile. The two years worth of expurgatory notes suggested that my father was trying to own his addiction - a good step toward healing; a good, first step.
Finally, I laid the black notebook back on Daddy's desk. His life was completely redefined by the words written in his effort to be honest about himself. Sighing deeply, I leaned back in his desk chair and wondered what to do with this expose. I could not connect the dots. Anger, disgust, compassion, hatred, longing, fear, relief, horror, confusion..everything but mourning. Glad that he no longer struggled. Thankful there would be no more victims of his addiction. Undaunted by the task of viewing and identifying his body the next morning, knowing that would be the last time I would have to see my father on this earth.
I found my way to his shower and peeled off my clothing. A pervasive dirtiness that could not be washed away was impervious to the soap and shampoo. My heart was weighed down by it as I crawled into bed, and there was a heaviness on my chest as I tried to breathe. Daddy was dead now, his addicition thrown off. Cast off as his body was. That was the only peace I found as sleep finally overcame the aching tiredness of my body.
Forty. There were forty. That he could remember! Forty lives forever changed. Some were young adults. Others were children from the neighborhood, family members, children of friends, kids he had been trusted to baby sit. The youngest was four. No little boy or young adult male had been safe with my father. His two arrests were only the tip of the iceberg. His revelations of indiscretions included the process by which he would secure relationships with children he molested. Daddy told of a young woman in the neighborhood who was outside often with her son. Daddy made a point of stopping by on one of those sunny afternoons in order to discover the woman's situation. Her boy was all she had. Needed help with chores. My father was happy to help. Caught in his web, her child his prey, my father went on to describe how easy it was to be with the young mother's son alone. Set-up after degrading set-up was revealed. It seems my father was always looking for his golden opportunity.
Replete with descriptions of the actual sexual pleasure he received from some of these encounters, nauseating revelations assaulted me. Even in the retelling of his sexual exploits, it was clear that my father had no real clarity about how his actions were affecting his victims. He described a young child's behavior as "precocious," as if the child could make a decision about his relationship with my father. In his effort to be as honest as possible, the rawness of Daddy's recollections spewed visuals across the pages of his purgings that could only barely be digested. His first conquest began shortly after his own molestation. A boy in his own neighborhood who was slightly younger than the adolescent Jim became his first sexual liason, and it lasted for several years. The army provided other opportunities for his homosexual exploration. Homosexuality and pedophilia were habits of mind and a covert way of life for Daddy by the time he married my mother. Not a day went by, he would later tell me, that he did not long for the company of boys. Craving the love of a man, the fragrance of a father, the praise of a male parent, my father was forever an adolescent heart seeking comfort for his woundedness and bloodying others in the process.
My initial reaction to what I tried to digest from the confessions of my father was a certain awe that we, his family, could have been so betrayed; then, that my father was pathological in his flagrant use of so many others. I wanted to correct if for the forty. Make it go away. How naive of us to think that the only times he had molested children were the times when he was caught! Of course, he had had a life-long addiction.
Secondarily, but rushing in and tripping over the heels of my first thoughts, was disgust. How could he do that? I could not understand his mind! To plot evil and draw innocence into its trap is heinous. The lack of cognizance in Daddy's confessions was crushing. Pedophilia was so integral to his interior landscape that he had to be "reminded" by a court of law and a psycho-therapist that it is wrong!
Copious notes from my father's journal were devoted to answering many times in various ways questions about how his victims must have felt. With great difficulty and minimal clarity at first, Daddy tried to understand how the molested must have reacted. His thinking was oblique, as though some large area of his heart and mind had petrified over the years, making penetration impossible. I could only compare it to losing a thought that could not be conjured again though its retrieval is concentrated upon vigorously. He could not remember what it felt like to be the victim; only the power in being the exploiter. When answering the questions posed by the therapist on this issue, my father's notes became stilted, passionless, as if he were copying down what she told him to write so that he could go back over the notes later and try to decipher their meaning.
Astonishingly, one of Daddy's major purposes for recovery, as stated in his notes, was so that he could have a relationship with his great grandsons, my grandchildren! That gave him heart to move forward. Never would there be a time, had Daddy lived, that he would have been allowed that privilege. Again, his vision was blurred by his inability to face the mirror that reflected to him what was evident to those who possessed clarity. Still he would say to me, " I am what you say I am," as though I pronounced him to be a homosexual pedophile. The two years worth of expurgatory notes suggested that my father was trying to own his addiction - a good step toward healing; a good, first step.
Finally, I laid the black notebook back on Daddy's desk. His life was completely redefined by the words written in his effort to be honest about himself. Sighing deeply, I leaned back in his desk chair and wondered what to do with this expose. I could not connect the dots. Anger, disgust, compassion, hatred, longing, fear, relief, horror, confusion..everything but mourning. Glad that he no longer struggled. Thankful there would be no more victims of his addiction. Undaunted by the task of viewing and identifying his body the next morning, knowing that would be the last time I would have to see my father on this earth.
I found my way to his shower and peeled off my clothing. A pervasive dirtiness that could not be washed away was impervious to the soap and shampoo. My heart was weighed down by it as I crawled into bed, and there was a heaviness on my chest as I tried to breathe. Daddy was dead now, his addicition thrown off. Cast off as his body was. That was the only peace I found as sleep finally overcame the aching tiredness of my body.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
2003
Facedown on the motel carpet, desperate, great heaving sobs poured out of me as some dam burst, the waters of which had been backing up for years. Marlana had met me there. I had essentially run away from home because I did not know what else to do. I told Bill I did not love him anymore, crushing him with a revelation he had already suspected. I left with a little suitcase and called my friend, Marlana, when I had finished driving aimlessly around and decided to check into a motel. For the two hours it took my friend to come to my rescue, I sat stunned on the edge of the bed. How had my life come to this? I had soul-cancer. Some treacherous malignancy had been slowly devouring my life.
It seemed to me as I sat there on that particular Sunday afternoon in the spring of 2003 that I would either choose to live or die. This cancer had a root, undefined by me in specifics; generally, I knew it took hold of my soul in 1985 in what Marlana aptly called my "train wreck." It had been my choice not to adequately deal with my mother's willing death and my father's first arrest at the time it all happened. I had no idea how to even think about it, and I was the mother of three children who needed me to be strong. How could I spend months in therapy when I had to much to do? So, I put it away - the dealing with it.
That was a mistake. I kept telling myself that someday I would have time for myself and then I could try to make sense of the chaos - ease the constant subliminal ache. So, in this dreadful moment I found myself emptied and pitiful; a sheep caught in the brambles - a predicament of my own making. I had not wandered off aimlessly, but deliberately. Thought I could manage on my own. Did not know extricating myself from the thorns would be almost impossible. Almost.
With the knock on the motel room door came the beginning of my clarity and sanity. Marlana had been praying with me and for me for several months. Ironically, she was a Christian because I had shared my faith with her years before when I was her high school teacher. Marlana was now the mother of four grown children, and she had only recently moved to Southern California for a year with her husband, who was in the military.
My friend strode through the open door with her Bible in hand and a resolute look on her face. This was the moment for which she had been waiting - when the prodigal realizes she is in the slop with the pigs and she needs to go home. She loved me and had a much better understanding of my predicament than I did. Marlana brought hope into the room with her and set about making certain that she poured it all over me.
"You need to forgive everyone who has hurt you, Kay, speaking to each of them as if they are here in the room with you," she began.
Initially that sounded both silly and embarrassing - this talking to people who were not there, with Marlana listening in on the pretended conversation.
"There is great freedom in forgiveness," she went on. "It sets you free when you forgive."
"Marlana, at this point, there are so many people who need to forgive me," I replied. "I don't know if I can do this."
"If you don't, you will die spiritually, Kay; so, let's get started." No argument.
My friend instructed me to lie facedown, prone on the floor. She sat down beside me as I cradled my head in my crossed arms in front of me.
"Pretend your father is before you right now and tell him how he has hurt you," was her command.
"I can't start with Daddy," I said as an uncanny fear clutched at me. I thought I might drown or break. That there would be some emotional cascading from which I might not emerge whole.
"Then let's start with God!"
What? Start with God? The thought was so preposterous I could not even argue. What would I have to forgive God for? I could only raise my head in wonder at Marlana.
"You're mad at Him." No doubt registering in her voice or on her face.
I put my had back down on my arms and thought about that very carefully. Who could be so brazen as to shake a fist in the face of God? The audacity of the thought was abashing to me. Sure, my friends had died young, leaving behind husbands and children. I had tried to understand that. I had tried to give God the benefit of the doubt. And Mother. All the years of suppressing hurt and storing offenses had finally manifested itself in a life she felt was no longer worth living. Then there was Daddy - arrested a second time. Maybe I could at least ask: "Where were you, God?" I started with that.
"Where were you, God?"
A great sob took my breath away and made my body heave. I almost vomited the words they so ached to be said. "Where were you when my friends died? Do you kill your children?"
This was loud! I heard myself, yet could not control it. I was profoundly angry with my God and had not known the extent of it. The eruption was scary - too visceral -but once flowing, was not possible to stop. It was not accusation, but a plea to understand. To know the unknowable. I brought before God each moment I had tried to give my friends some comfort because I felt I had failed them, too. It took literally hours for me to purge the ugly stream of offense that I harbored toward God. Why had He taken Mother and left us to deal with Daddy? I saw her hopeless, jaundiced face and wizened little body sitting at the dinner table announcing her decision to die and railed at the necessity! The lovely faces of my friends as they had been in life - vibrant and expressive - paraded into the crucible that this experience had become. "And Becky, Lord! And Cathette!" I cried out. "How could you be good and still take them so young?"
Emptying. Years of garbage had sullied my interior landscape. When I thought I could not shed more tears, it was time to talk to a vicarious Daddy. The real Daddy would not listen. This one had to. Still, I was reticent, fearing my body would relent again and sicken me before I could express to a phantom father the fathomless, bottomless pain he had caused. I had to imagine him for a while before I could address him. He needed a certain expression that my heart waited to see.
"I hate you!" I was not expecting that! It blew out of my mouth! "I hate that I came from your body!" Shame. I had taken on shame! I did not know that. "I am ashamed that you are my father!"
Too flooded with emotion, too choked by tears, it was several minutes before I could compose myself enough to speak again. Beginning with the incomprehensible neglect of Mother's heart when we picked him up from jail, listening to Daddy wail, his voice keening out of control, professing to love the boy he had molested, I let this father have it! Like the breaking open of a puss-filled infection, my feelings spewed with the stench created by years of festering, untreated, unaired grievances and unforgiveness. Finally I could say it! To him! It seemed only minutes had passed, but when I looked up, red-faced and spent, at Marlana, it was midnight.
"You need to forgive him, now," she said gently.
He seemed pitiful to me by the time I had finished. Conjuring his face once more, I said, "I forgive you, Daddy."
I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. "And you will no longer be able to affect my life. I release you." And it was gone, like a kite my hands had let go of or a balloon floating free, all the angst and deadly sense of responsibility I had carried for twenty years! I felt unplugged from the source of the energy that had fueled my rebellion, void of the need to run away. My hands had been manacled and my mouth covered, and I had been desperately trying to escape. The placebo I had run to had only created further captivity and pain. Untangling would be slow and excruciating, I knew; but, there was light, finally.
"You know, you have a Father," Marlana was saying.
I was sitting now, taking deep breaths and trying to synthesize my experience. "Yes," I said. "I know."
Then it was my turn to beg forgiveness like a beggar begs for bread. I had hurt and disappointed my God, my family and many others who loved me. I cried out from my sin-parched spirit for newness. I understood in that moment why God does not forgive us if we do not forgive others. How could I ask His mercy for my deplorable actions yet hold others accountable for theirs? Given the right circumstances, it seems we are all capable of anything. I trusted in those long moments of confession that my God forgave me. It would be many arduous months, though, before I could gain the spiritual strength lost in my wilderness. I had gone a long way out; it was a long way back.
It seemed to me as I sat there on that particular Sunday afternoon in the spring of 2003 that I would either choose to live or die. This cancer had a root, undefined by me in specifics; generally, I knew it took hold of my soul in 1985 in what Marlana aptly called my "train wreck." It had been my choice not to adequately deal with my mother's willing death and my father's first arrest at the time it all happened. I had no idea how to even think about it, and I was the mother of three children who needed me to be strong. How could I spend months in therapy when I had to much to do? So, I put it away - the dealing with it.
That was a mistake. I kept telling myself that someday I would have time for myself and then I could try to make sense of the chaos - ease the constant subliminal ache. So, in this dreadful moment I found myself emptied and pitiful; a sheep caught in the brambles - a predicament of my own making. I had not wandered off aimlessly, but deliberately. Thought I could manage on my own. Did not know extricating myself from the thorns would be almost impossible. Almost.
With the knock on the motel room door came the beginning of my clarity and sanity. Marlana had been praying with me and for me for several months. Ironically, she was a Christian because I had shared my faith with her years before when I was her high school teacher. Marlana was now the mother of four grown children, and she had only recently moved to Southern California for a year with her husband, who was in the military.
My friend strode through the open door with her Bible in hand and a resolute look on her face. This was the moment for which she had been waiting - when the prodigal realizes she is in the slop with the pigs and she needs to go home. She loved me and had a much better understanding of my predicament than I did. Marlana brought hope into the room with her and set about making certain that she poured it all over me.
"You need to forgive everyone who has hurt you, Kay, speaking to each of them as if they are here in the room with you," she began.
Initially that sounded both silly and embarrassing - this talking to people who were not there, with Marlana listening in on the pretended conversation.
"There is great freedom in forgiveness," she went on. "It sets you free when you forgive."
"Marlana, at this point, there are so many people who need to forgive me," I replied. "I don't know if I can do this."
"If you don't, you will die spiritually, Kay; so, let's get started." No argument.
My friend instructed me to lie facedown, prone on the floor. She sat down beside me as I cradled my head in my crossed arms in front of me.
"Pretend your father is before you right now and tell him how he has hurt you," was her command.
"I can't start with Daddy," I said as an uncanny fear clutched at me. I thought I might drown or break. That there would be some emotional cascading from which I might not emerge whole.
"Then let's start with God!"
What? Start with God? The thought was so preposterous I could not even argue. What would I have to forgive God for? I could only raise my head in wonder at Marlana.
"You're mad at Him." No doubt registering in her voice or on her face.
I put my had back down on my arms and thought about that very carefully. Who could be so brazen as to shake a fist in the face of God? The audacity of the thought was abashing to me. Sure, my friends had died young, leaving behind husbands and children. I had tried to understand that. I had tried to give God the benefit of the doubt. And Mother. All the years of suppressing hurt and storing offenses had finally manifested itself in a life she felt was no longer worth living. Then there was Daddy - arrested a second time. Maybe I could at least ask: "Where were you, God?" I started with that.
"Where were you, God?"
A great sob took my breath away and made my body heave. I almost vomited the words they so ached to be said. "Where were you when my friends died? Do you kill your children?"
This was loud! I heard myself, yet could not control it. I was profoundly angry with my God and had not known the extent of it. The eruption was scary - too visceral -but once flowing, was not possible to stop. It was not accusation, but a plea to understand. To know the unknowable. I brought before God each moment I had tried to give my friends some comfort because I felt I had failed them, too. It took literally hours for me to purge the ugly stream of offense that I harbored toward God. Why had He taken Mother and left us to deal with Daddy? I saw her hopeless, jaundiced face and wizened little body sitting at the dinner table announcing her decision to die and railed at the necessity! The lovely faces of my friends as they had been in life - vibrant and expressive - paraded into the crucible that this experience had become. "And Becky, Lord! And Cathette!" I cried out. "How could you be good and still take them so young?"
Emptying. Years of garbage had sullied my interior landscape. When I thought I could not shed more tears, it was time to talk to a vicarious Daddy. The real Daddy would not listen. This one had to. Still, I was reticent, fearing my body would relent again and sicken me before I could express to a phantom father the fathomless, bottomless pain he had caused. I had to imagine him for a while before I could address him. He needed a certain expression that my heart waited to see.
"I hate you!" I was not expecting that! It blew out of my mouth! "I hate that I came from your body!" Shame. I had taken on shame! I did not know that. "I am ashamed that you are my father!"
Too flooded with emotion, too choked by tears, it was several minutes before I could compose myself enough to speak again. Beginning with the incomprehensible neglect of Mother's heart when we picked him up from jail, listening to Daddy wail, his voice keening out of control, professing to love the boy he had molested, I let this father have it! Like the breaking open of a puss-filled infection, my feelings spewed with the stench created by years of festering, untreated, unaired grievances and unforgiveness. Finally I could say it! To him! It seemed only minutes had passed, but when I looked up, red-faced and spent, at Marlana, it was midnight.
"You need to forgive him, now," she said gently.
He seemed pitiful to me by the time I had finished. Conjuring his face once more, I said, "I forgive you, Daddy."
I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. "And you will no longer be able to affect my life. I release you." And it was gone, like a kite my hands had let go of or a balloon floating free, all the angst and deadly sense of responsibility I had carried for twenty years! I felt unplugged from the source of the energy that had fueled my rebellion, void of the need to run away. My hands had been manacled and my mouth covered, and I had been desperately trying to escape. The placebo I had run to had only created further captivity and pain. Untangling would be slow and excruciating, I knew; but, there was light, finally.
"You know, you have a Father," Marlana was saying.
I was sitting now, taking deep breaths and trying to synthesize my experience. "Yes," I said. "I know."
Then it was my turn to beg forgiveness like a beggar begs for bread. I had hurt and disappointed my God, my family and many others who loved me. I cried out from my sin-parched spirit for newness. I understood in that moment why God does not forgive us if we do not forgive others. How could I ask His mercy for my deplorable actions yet hold others accountable for theirs? Given the right circumstances, it seems we are all capable of anything. I trusted in those long moments of confession that my God forgave me. It would be many arduous months, though, before I could gain the spiritual strength lost in my wilderness. I had gone a long way out; it was a long way back.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
2007
My phone rang early in the afternoon and my sister was on the other end of the line. The message was that Daddy's health was failing quickly, and if I wanted to see him before he died, I should probably make plans to fly to Texas. At the close of our conversation, my stomach went sick - to that place it had gone for years when I thought of seeing Daddy. Too much unsaid - too much unresolved with no closure. Since my father's second arrest, I had only called him once - Christmas two years before. That had proven to be, emotionally, a mistake for me.
My friend who joined us for Christmas dinner also has a difficult father. Not a felon, but verbally abusive. She had called her father and asked me if I had called Daddy, who was in the hospital following hip replacement surgery. I was encouraged by guilt to call him up. It took all my mustered courage to punch the numbers into the phone. Daddy's friend, Jesse, had made me aware of the hospital and room number where Daddy was convaslescing.
A feeble "hello" was my reward.
"Merry Christmas, Daddy!" I paused. "It's Kay, Daddy."
"Oh, hello, Kay."
"How are you? I understand you fell at home."
"Yes," was the groggy reply. "Phil found me -got me help."
I was trying to picture how that worked, as Daddy weighed close to three hundred pounds.
"I'm very glad he was there, Daddy." There was a long, awkward pause. "Well, I just called to wish you a Merry Christmas."
"Well, thanks. I almost forgot it is Christmas. It has been a difficult day." He waited for me to ask why, but I did not. He went on anyway. "I got up to go to the restroom with the help of the orderlies. The regular staff isn't here today, so I had to depend on temporary staffing. The guys were trying to help me walk to the restroom when I fell on top of one of the orderlies." Here his voice breaks and my heart goes out to him for a moment. It must have been embarrassing and painful to fall again.
"The nurses had to come and help me off of the young man. He couldn't move; they took him away on a gurney." Pause. He's crying. "I can't believe God's love for me that the young man was there to cushion my fall." Now he's crying hard.
I am stunned into silence. The young man cushioned his fall? My gut reaction was nausea. Oh, my God! It's all about him! It's always all about him. All I could see was this poor young orderly lying motionless on the floor, my father atop him, and my father thanking God that it was the young man and not he who was hurt.
"Is...is the young man going to okay, Daddy?" incredulity ringing in the question.
"Oh, I don't know," snuffling up his crying snot. "They took him to x-ray, I suppose." Hadn't thought about it. Consumed with himself. I could only hope he was talking through some vicodin-induced haze. Suddenly, I did not want to talk any more.
"I have to go, Daddy. Take care."
"Good-bye, Kay."
In order to see my dying father in August of 2007, I booked a flight to Texas for Monday afternoon to return on Tuesday night. When I arrived at DFW airport late Monday evening, I was filled with consternation and I was achingly tired. Since I only had a small carry-on bag, I went immediately to the shuttle that transports travelers to the rental car area. I wanted nothing more than fast food and a good long hot bath. It was already after eight in the evening when I passed through the sliding glass doors and into the Enterprise rental queue. Although the line was set up for many people to inch through the maze of temporary rows, I was the lone customer dragging my baggage to the counter. After all the paper work was completed, the nervous young man facilitating me informed me that they were actually "all out of cars right now." What?
"I'll take any kind of vehicle you have," I said, rubbing my face so hard I smeared my blush into my mascara. I did not have time for this - or patience.
"We'll have one up for you in just a couple minutes, ma'am. You can wait outside by that curb," pointing toward "that" curb.
It was still ninety degrees outside - this was Dallas summertime, for crying out loud! The other lone passenger, from Chicago, I learned, was waiting for the other car that was not there. He was interesting and all, but after about ten minutes with not one or two cars coming screeching to the curb, we quizzed the nervous, and now sweaty, young man concerning the whereabouts of the Cadillacs we both now felt we deserved. Assured they would be there in a couple of minutes, we waited and perspired for another thirty.
It was after nine p.m. when I finally turned the ignition switch of a car that was definitely not a Cadillac, and with much relief, headed toward the Motel 6 in Arlington. I don't really know how I ran out of fast food places at which I could have stopped; but, I wound up at a drive-up window for a Long John Silver's that was connected to a gas station. I took my fish platter to the motel and sat on the bed, eating it cold. The bath was nice; I tried to read; I went to bed; I turned out the light; and, I stayed awake all night thinking about seeing my father.
At nine the next morning, I made my way to the hospital. What would I say? What would I feel? What would he say and feel? Would my stomach remind me of our unfinished business and writhe and churn and send me rushing to the bathroom? Could I do this meeting with the grace for which I had prayed, knowing that it was surely important to my father? My sisters had been seeing him and caring for him on and off for weeks. I knew I had to step up, but my mind could not create the scene before it happened; so, I could get no peace all night. Life does not walk backwards from the end of a thing to the beginning. So I stepped through the elevator doors and into my father's hospital room with trepidation.
By God's grace, I had a minute to take in the room and my father in his bed, for he was asleep. There was a large breathing tube in his mouth that was generously pumping life into his lungs and some extraneous beeping that I know made sense to the doctors, but was more background noise for me. As I came nearer to the bed, I felt an unexpected catch in my chest, a stifled sob. In that moment I was wishing for the Daddy I had known before this man came along. I could pretend this was my girlhood Daddy if I didn't wake him up. His hands were blue and bruised from the intravenous tube carrying fluid to his body, and his false teeth were not in his mouth. He did not know that I was coming, but he had expressed to my sisters that when he saw me he would be ready to go "home."
Standing over him then, I had a sense of peace. I felt very sorry for him for all he had lost in the last twenty-five years, but, there was no anger or unforgiveness, only a detached, vague desire to see the "old" daddy for a few minutes. Gingerly, I touched the crepe-like skin of his arm. Slowly he opened his heavy eyelids and caught his breath. His eyes filled with tears and a small whine escaped from him. I leaned across his body and maneuvered around the breathing apparatus to hug Daddy. He could not speak very clearly with the tube in his throat, but he managed to give me what I know was a speech he had been rehearsing in his mind and heart in the anticipation that he would see me before he died. In an effort not to forget one single word, he made sure he said it all before I left his embrace.
"Oh, Kay. You came!" He took a deep breath. His voice was raspy. "Can you ever forgive me? I am so sorry, Kay. I love you. You are my precious daughter. I have three precious daughters. And I love Bill and Heather, Vanessa and Will." Taking a breath. "Please forgive me."
"I forgive you, Daddy. I did that a long time ago. It was not me you sinned against."
"I know. But I have made my life right with God, and I know He has forgiven me, and I am just so thankful that He allowed you to come to me. Everything will be all right now. I have seen my three daughters."
I relaxed my embrace and he took a deep breath and lay back, calm now, on his pillow. All anxiety now drained from my body. I moved a chair close to his bed and took his purple hand in mine. He really wanted me to touch him the entire time I was there; he wanted physical contact. My sisters had expressed that they had the same experience. He was hungry for the love of his children, expressed. He seemed to want to take that comfort actually into himself somehow; let it premeate his soul and accompany him into eternity.
In order to see my dying father
My friend who joined us for Christmas dinner also has a difficult father. Not a felon, but verbally abusive. She had called her father and asked me if I had called Daddy, who was in the hospital following hip replacement surgery. I was encouraged by guilt to call him up. It took all my mustered courage to punch the numbers into the phone. Daddy's friend, Jesse, had made me aware of the hospital and room number where Daddy was convaslescing.
A feeble "hello" was my reward.
"Merry Christmas, Daddy!" I paused. "It's Kay, Daddy."
"Oh, hello, Kay."
"How are you? I understand you fell at home."
"Yes," was the groggy reply. "Phil found me -got me help."
I was trying to picture how that worked, as Daddy weighed close to three hundred pounds.
"I'm very glad he was there, Daddy." There was a long, awkward pause. "Well, I just called to wish you a Merry Christmas."
"Well, thanks. I almost forgot it is Christmas. It has been a difficult day." He waited for me to ask why, but I did not. He went on anyway. "I got up to go to the restroom with the help of the orderlies. The regular staff isn't here today, so I had to depend on temporary staffing. The guys were trying to help me walk to the restroom when I fell on top of one of the orderlies." Here his voice breaks and my heart goes out to him for a moment. It must have been embarrassing and painful to fall again.
"The nurses had to come and help me off of the young man. He couldn't move; they took him away on a gurney." Pause. He's crying. "I can't believe God's love for me that the young man was there to cushion my fall." Now he's crying hard.
I am stunned into silence. The young man cushioned his fall? My gut reaction was nausea. Oh, my God! It's all about him! It's always all about him. All I could see was this poor young orderly lying motionless on the floor, my father atop him, and my father thanking God that it was the young man and not he who was hurt.
"Is...is the young man going to okay, Daddy?" incredulity ringing in the question.
"Oh, I don't know," snuffling up his crying snot. "They took him to x-ray, I suppose." Hadn't thought about it. Consumed with himself. I could only hope he was talking through some vicodin-induced haze. Suddenly, I did not want to talk any more.
"I have to go, Daddy. Take care."
"Good-bye, Kay."
In order to see my dying father in August of 2007, I booked a flight to Texas for Monday afternoon to return on Tuesday night. When I arrived at DFW airport late Monday evening, I was filled with consternation and I was achingly tired. Since I only had a small carry-on bag, I went immediately to the shuttle that transports travelers to the rental car area. I wanted nothing more than fast food and a good long hot bath. It was already after eight in the evening when I passed through the sliding glass doors and into the Enterprise rental queue. Although the line was set up for many people to inch through the maze of temporary rows, I was the lone customer dragging my baggage to the counter. After all the paper work was completed, the nervous young man facilitating me informed me that they were actually "all out of cars right now." What?
"I'll take any kind of vehicle you have," I said, rubbing my face so hard I smeared my blush into my mascara. I did not have time for this - or patience.
"We'll have one up for you in just a couple minutes, ma'am. You can wait outside by that curb," pointing toward "that" curb.
It was still ninety degrees outside - this was Dallas summertime, for crying out loud! The other lone passenger, from Chicago, I learned, was waiting for the other car that was not there. He was interesting and all, but after about ten minutes with not one or two cars coming screeching to the curb, we quizzed the nervous, and now sweaty, young man concerning the whereabouts of the Cadillacs we both now felt we deserved. Assured they would be there in a couple of minutes, we waited and perspired for another thirty.
It was after nine p.m. when I finally turned the ignition switch of a car that was definitely not a Cadillac, and with much relief, headed toward the Motel 6 in Arlington. I don't really know how I ran out of fast food places at which I could have stopped; but, I wound up at a drive-up window for a Long John Silver's that was connected to a gas station. I took my fish platter to the motel and sat on the bed, eating it cold. The bath was nice; I tried to read; I went to bed; I turned out the light; and, I stayed awake all night thinking about seeing my father.
At nine the next morning, I made my way to the hospital. What would I say? What would I feel? What would he say and feel? Would my stomach remind me of our unfinished business and writhe and churn and send me rushing to the bathroom? Could I do this meeting with the grace for which I had prayed, knowing that it was surely important to my father? My sisters had been seeing him and caring for him on and off for weeks. I knew I had to step up, but my mind could not create the scene before it happened; so, I could get no peace all night. Life does not walk backwards from the end of a thing to the beginning. So I stepped through the elevator doors and into my father's hospital room with trepidation.
By God's grace, I had a minute to take in the room and my father in his bed, for he was asleep. There was a large breathing tube in his mouth that was generously pumping life into his lungs and some extraneous beeping that I know made sense to the doctors, but was more background noise for me. As I came nearer to the bed, I felt an unexpected catch in my chest, a stifled sob. In that moment I was wishing for the Daddy I had known before this man came along. I could pretend this was my girlhood Daddy if I didn't wake him up. His hands were blue and bruised from the intravenous tube carrying fluid to his body, and his false teeth were not in his mouth. He did not know that I was coming, but he had expressed to my sisters that when he saw me he would be ready to go "home."
Standing over him then, I had a sense of peace. I felt very sorry for him for all he had lost in the last twenty-five years, but, there was no anger or unforgiveness, only a detached, vague desire to see the "old" daddy for a few minutes. Gingerly, I touched the crepe-like skin of his arm. Slowly he opened his heavy eyelids and caught his breath. His eyes filled with tears and a small whine escaped from him. I leaned across his body and maneuvered around the breathing apparatus to hug Daddy. He could not speak very clearly with the tube in his throat, but he managed to give me what I know was a speech he had been rehearsing in his mind and heart in the anticipation that he would see me before he died. In an effort not to forget one single word, he made sure he said it all before I left his embrace.
"Oh, Kay. You came!" He took a deep breath. His voice was raspy. "Can you ever forgive me? I am so sorry, Kay. I love you. You are my precious daughter. I have three precious daughters. And I love Bill and Heather, Vanessa and Will." Taking a breath. "Please forgive me."
"I forgive you, Daddy. I did that a long time ago. It was not me you sinned against."
"I know. But I have made my life right with God, and I know He has forgiven me, and I am just so thankful that He allowed you to come to me. Everything will be all right now. I have seen my three daughters."
I relaxed my embrace and he took a deep breath and lay back, calm now, on his pillow. All anxiety now drained from my body. I moved a chair close to his bed and took his purple hand in mine. He really wanted me to touch him the entire time I was there; he wanted physical contact. My sisters had expressed that they had the same experience. He was hungry for the love of his children, expressed. He seemed to want to take that comfort actually into himself somehow; let it premeate his soul and accompany him into eternity.
In order to see my dying father
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