Daddy-o

It's funny the things that come to my mind at Christmas time--all the many relationships with friends and family.  All the memories--with one of those memories being a horrible dream that I had many years ago.

This story is very hard for me to share and very hard to explain, but I'll give it my best shot.  My relationship with my father was and still is complex.  We aren't close, we don't have that bond that a lot of my friends have with their fathers.  And yet...there is something.  There is a love there, but also a longing for something more.  However, without getting deeper into this story than I want to right now, I'm just going to write about an incident.  An important occurrence that played a part in my understanding of him.

It all began with a nightmare.  I was in my late 20's, I was married and already had my 3 children.  We were all asleep when suddenly I woke up sobbing.  My husband was on a business trip, so there I lay all alone in bed, crying, thinking, and wondering what if.

After getting up the next morning I had to make a decision--what to do about the nightmare I had.  Should I make a call, should I confront, or should I ignore it, should I shove it way back, deep inside and let it continue to build?  At the time, I wasn't really big into confrontation, not yet anyway.  I did not have my degree in psychology, I did not have life experience and I did not at that stage in my life have the guts to confront.  So, lacking the tools, the courage, and the wisdom—what was I supposed to do now?  That's what was on my mind as I took my daughter to school and my put 2 little sons down for their morning naps.   I agonized for a couple of hours.  And then I made the call.  I called my dad.

What should I say? How should I start? Should I be kind, understanding, angry, what?  My heart was beating hard and fast, my mouth was dry, I could feel the emotions welling within me as the phone began to ring on the other end.

Hello?  And then I began.  Dad?  I need to tell you something.  I could barely get out the words—I need to tell you that I love you very much.  There was complete silence on the other end of the line.  As I sat there sobbing, I choked out the words—Dad?  Are you there?  And then I heard him—very softly at first, a little whimpering sound—it seems he was crying too.  He then said to me the words that I had longed to hear for almost 30 years.  He said—I love you too.

I then told him about the nightmare that I had, about how I was standing in front of a coffin and when I looked down inside that coffin, it was him lying there.  And I realized that I had never told him that I loved him.  I didn't want him to die without ever hearing those words from me, so I had to call.

We could have ended the conversation right then and there as far as I was concerned, it was all I really ever wanted to hear.  Just an I love you--I just wanted to know that he loved me.   However, he had a lot more to say.  For the first time that I could ever remember he began to talk to me.  He told me story after story about his childhood, his struggles with poverty and of being the oldest of 6 children.  About joining the military at an absurdly young age, about leaving home and never feeling loved or being told that he was loved either.

I asked him why then--didn't he do it differently with his children? Why didn't he take what he had learned and change the future—tell his daughters that he loved them, that they were special, that they had a future. Why wasn't he a real dad, a loving dad, a doting father?  Why?  I wanted to find out, I had to know.  And he told me.  He just didn't know how.  No other explanation.  He just didn't know how.  He was sorry, he told me.  He was so sorry.

So, I had to forgive him, right?  I had to.  I realized then that I had what I wanted from the phone call.  I had a verbal I love you from my father.  Whether he ever said it again or not, I had gotten it.  And I think I knew even all those years ago, that it was going to have to last me for a lifetime.  I've never heard it since, but that's OK.  I heard it then.  An I love you from my dad.

Forgiving him wasn't an option for me.  I am a Christian, I believe in forgiveness.  He didn't necessarily deserve it or earn it, but I was told to forgive him.  And so I did.  He said he was sorry, what more could he do?  I loved him, accepted him and forgave him all in that moment.  I try hard not to dwell on what I didn't get from my father while growing up.  And now I focus on what I get from other people that God has brought into my life.  

I keep my eyes on God.  And I am thankful.  I do not feel sorry for myself in any way.  I feel that I have been blessed beyond measure--so how could I or why would I go through life feeling sad about my childhood?   I'll be honest though--I do have my moments.  I'll be watching a movie about father/daughter relationships and I'll wish--for just a moment that I had that.  But, then reality kicks in and I tell myself--hey, your dad said he loved you, what more can you ask for?  So, I shake it off, I hold my head high, and I thank God for the awesome life He's given me.

I wish I was spending Christmas this year with my parents.  My dad is 80 years old now.  How many more years will I get with my folks?  I wonder.  It scares me a little.  Maybe I should hurry up and buy those plane tickets!  I need to go visit my daddy-o!

My father