If you read last week’s blog, “19, Knocked Up & No Good,” you got a snapshot of what life was like at home for me with my verbally and emotionally abusive dad. I wrote last week’s blog as a stand-alone piece about ministering to post-abortive women, but as I read it and reread it, what stood out to me most was my dad. My father was so much more than the snapshot I gave you. Even though our history was tainted by the ugliness of abuse, he and I are so much the same. We both wanted to be good but didn’t know how. We both desired acceptance, but it had always been just out of reach.
After he died and I healed from the hurt, the Lord opened my eyes to a whole other side of who my father was. He had his own story of abuse.
I would love to tell you that my dad and I found healing before he died, but we didn’t. Our last interaction was full of hurt, anger, and self-righteousness.
Let me show you a different side of the man who was my father. He was born in 1934, in the middle of the Great Depression. He had to go to work to help support the family, so he did not graduate high school. Though he did not finish high school, my dad had a fascinating brain. He was very smart in some areas but lacked common sense in others. He wasn’t the typical “book smart” guy, though — he had street sense as well. My dad also had vision well beyond his time.
A Boy Broken by Abuse and Death:
He came from horrific abuse. He was abused in every way we can imagine. My grandfather was a mean man. Though my grandmother was the sweetest woman to ever walk the earth, at that time there was no way for her to protect herself or her children from my grandfather. As if this wasn’t enough to break anyone’s spirit, the death of my father’s twin brother was an event my father would never recover from.
Robert and Richard — brothers, best friends, and partners in adventure. To say they were a handful would be quite the understatement. My guess is they fought hard, but they loved each other deeply. The picture in my head of them is doing their chores as fast as they could in order to get out and discover the adventures that lived in their hearts. I don’t know if that’s what happened, but that’s what I imagine. I picture them running through the woods, pretending to be the people little boys pretend to be. What I do know, though, is that they accidentally killed the dog and set my aunt’s crib on fire while she was still in it. She lived, but not without the scars to prove it.
The boys were playing ball one day, and the ball went onto the roof. It was a toss-up to see who would go get it — Richie lost. He went to get the ball and fell off the roof. He died in my father’s arms. That was the most defining moment in my dad’s life. A heart full of love and trust for his closest companion, shattered in a moment’s time. His life was forever altered.
He once told me that he lived in such a big way because he had two lives to live in one lifetime. He not only had to live his own life but also needed to live enough for Richie, too.
A Man Trying to Be Enough:
My father walked around like a peacock with his feathers on display for others to marvel at, and most people did, at least at first glance. My father had a way about him; he was charismatic and charming, but he was a tough dude as well. He did things that other people dare not even try. My dad knew how to walk into a room and own it. That initial reaction of awe from people can be a bit addicting to a person who thinks they are not enough. They are constantly seeking the feeling they get from the “newness” of people being thrilled by them. That feeling fades, though, and they don’t know what to do when it is perceived to be gone. Dad did not know how to settle into relationships that moved past the excitement of awe. Though he and my mom remained married until his death, he was always seeking the thrill of “awe.” That didn’t necessarily mean he sought the attention of women, but he sought attention in other areas — not an uncommon struggle for people today and the relationship difficulties it can cause.
A Savior Complex:
On some level, I believe that my dad thought if he did enough good, it would be enough to absolve him of all he had done wrong. With this mindset, and his ability to do things other people would not even try, my father did amazing things for people. He fed the hungry, gave to the poor, and rescued those in trouble. Even me! Even though I took the brunt of his abuse, if I were in trouble outside of the house and needed to be “saved,” he was coming! I think the other aspect of this was that if he could rescue the people around him, it would, in his mind, make up for not being able to save his brother.
A Man Who Believed in God:
My father often talked about God. My parents lived behind a little white church for a few years, and he often said, “I’ll make it to that church someday.” It was always “someday” — I can’t help but wonder if he was waiting until he felt worthy before he walked through the doors of a church. Little did he know, none of us are worthy, but Christ died for us just the same.
My father wasn’t a bad man; he was eccentric and wounded. While one wasn’t always easy to handle, it was fascinating to watch. Out of his wounds, he wounded others. While there needed to be strict boundaries with my dad, and I didn’t always handle things well, I loved him as any daughter loves her dad. In the end, I am proud to call him Dad, though I am sure he wasn’t aware of that. I am thankful to the Lord for His hand in this thing with my dad, so that the last words we spoke are not what resonates with me today. In the next article, you will read about forgiveness and a deeper love for my father than I had ever thought possible.