Fathers are human. We usually wish they were more than that. I wanted my father to be truly as wonderful and happy and loving as the man he showed when he was singing in the church choir – the man he seemed to be to his Sunday School class – the man he was when we had a church picnic or a family reunion. He was a highly intelligent man - who took care of his family – provided well – and was a part of his kid’s lives. He was a deeply religious fundamentalist Baptist, who studied his Bible from cover to cover, with a particular love for Revelation and the end times. The Bible was interpreted literally… and legalistically. There was no alcohol in our house – no tobacco – no rock music or swearing… no going to dances or movies or doing any of the other obvious sins. My father needed to have God and the church be the center of his world… except when he had another need, which he first met with me in the basement cushioned by a pile of dirty laundry when I was 6.
So – my father was a pedophile. Not a very cheerful topic for Father’s Day. It went on until he moved away for work when I was 17. Icky… so icky, it seems, that I pushed it completely out of my conscious mind until I was 33, when the memories began crashing in. My father was a child molester. He denied from beginning, and never changed his story. But I knew the truth. My father was a child molester. Damn, damn, damn….
Let’s imagine I have given you all kinds of gory details and told you about the years of insanity and addiction and therapy and pain and rage and on and on and on. Let’s pretend that is all out and done with… because a lot of it is.
Since this is an essay about Father’s Day, let’s talk instead about something that does not come naturally for me - the good that came out of my relationship with my father. If you had asked me about the good 10 years ago, I would not have been able to tell you much. I was still too entrenched in my unresolved issues with him. But time (and our Source), if we allow it, can bring a change in perspective. So over the last few years, I have set out on a journey to find good memories about the man that I always called “Daddy.”
At heart, my father was a good man. He laughed a lot – he loved music and sang all the time – he whistled almost constantly (which drove me crazy at times). He was a morning person, which I was not, so he would often wake me for school by pretending to be playing Reveille at my door. I was not amused. Wait… wait. It seems I’ve segued into teenage aggravations instead of good memories – let me get back on track.
My father bought me an upright piano when I was 6 so I could start piano lessons, and surprised me with a gorgeous cherry wood Howard grand when I was 13. Recitals, choir concerts and musicals would always find him sitting in the audience. He took me to a good Baptist church, where I was very involved and a leader. A nice home, nice neighborhood, nice clothes - all good things for a kid growing up. Thanks Dad.
Okay – now that the obligatory appreciation is over – what is the truth about my father’s legacy to me? I have agonized over this for a long time… and here is what I think I know. My father lost his mother in a car accident when he was 8 – was raised by an alcoholic father - and I suspect his childhood was very painful. Still, he managed to educate himself, find good, steady employment, and be responsible in providing for the financial needs of his family. When my mother became ill again and again, he stayed. When my brother and I had challenges, he stayed. He embraced his spiritual beliefs, drew strength from them, and I think, eventually, found release from many of his personal demons through his trust in his God.
My father suffered from the same thing we all suffer from – human frailty. Our frailty demonstrates itself in so many different ways – some more appalling than others. But in the end, even though he had deteriorated physically and mentally, my father continued to model his faith and his humor. After not speaking for 15 years, I called him on what turned out to be his last Father’s Day. I had no idea he was ill – Spirit just moved me to overcome my fear and dial the number. I opened the conversation by saying that I was willing to try starting over from that moment forward, and see what would happen. He seemed pleased with that. Probably the next thing he said was “Have you found a good Independent Baptist Church?” It was an old old joke between us – and we had a good laugh. We went on to talk about my kids, and my life, and in this, our last conversation, I was able to hear the voice of a man who loved me... my Daddy. His love may have been flawed, but it was still love.
Forgiveness found a small foothold for me in that conversation. 6 months later I had a call from my brother telling me that my father had passed. I grieved more than I expected to – and my willingness to forgive continued to shift. Something about my belief that my father understood everything now - and had found forgiveness for himself… released me to see things more clearly.
Daddy, I wish things had been different – for me and for you. I wish there had not been so much pain… that things had been easier. But some of the best parts of who I am today are there because of the role you played in my life. I am beginning to believe that you offered to come and play this role because I asked to learn forgiveness in this lifetime. You were an excellent teacher. It could not have been easy for you. So I am going to say something I never thought I would say. I forgive you. I forgive you… and even more important, I think I am starting to forgive myself.
Happy Fathers Day Daddy. I love you. I hope you are in a heaven that is everything you ever imagined it to be… and I hope you’re singing tenor in the choir.
