A week after my dad passed away, I wrote a blog called “Thoughts on my father's death: A testament of grace”. I've never been good at verbalizing my thoughts on the spot, but plenty of time and a keyboard usually lend way to a little bit of clarity. I was able to reflect over the life of my father, the life we had together, the pain that resulted from his decisions, and the ways God has been molding me through it all.
I was not expecting the response I received from readers of the blog. Over 3000 views later, I've realized that this story is not just my own. I've had countless messages from people, many of whom I did not know, sharing how God has used this story in their own lives. An alcoholic father directly connected many people. Another had a father that committed suicide when she was a young girl. Others expressed the desire to share it with specific people that were experiencing bitterness and resentment from a similar situation. There was something very redeeming about hearing stories of healed hearts, reconciliation of relationships, and forgiveness that surpassed death.
It's now been almost six months since my dad died, though it feels like it's been so much longer. I now have the task of living the rest of my life without him. My story didn't stop when I wrote my first blog. Instead, a long (perhaps life-long) process of healing and continued processing began. My hope is that my words will continue to connect all of our stories.
Let me start by being honest. I wish my dad's death affected my life in a more dramatic way. It's very similar to the way I felt when my parents got divorced. On one hand, I'm thankful that the world has continued to turn. However, part of me wants to be so devastated by his death that I'm unable to function. The things that typically sadden young women after losing their fathers have been saddening me for as long as I can remember. Sappy songs like Butterfly Kisses. Father/daughter dances at weddings. And of course, Father’s Day. My reaction to father/daughter interactions hasn't changed. Before December, there was a glimmer of hope (however small it may have been) for the future that was to come. The hard part now is that there is no chance to continue to grow with him.
The two-month anniversary of his death fell on the weekend that I led music on Emmaus Walk #152. This was exactly the place I needed to be. The weekend (particularly the day of the actual anniversary) is largely focused on letting go (“dying to”) past hurts and baggage, and then moving forward to renewed growth and faith. I realized two vital things that weekend. First, there is no future event that I have to forgive my father for committing. The past few years have been spent pouring tireless amounts of effort into the road of reconciliation, knowing that I would likely continue to face more episodes that would create hollow potholes in that long road. There will be no more arguments. There will be no more waiting for him to call. I can focus on learning from the difficulties, and celebrating the effort he did make to try to convey his love for me, even if I didn’t always understand or appreciate the validity of it. The second realization I stumbled upon at Emmaus was a little bit more painful to process.
I have to forgive my father for dying. As I said in my previous blog, his death is the ultimate reminder that he didn’t choose me. I vividly remember begging him to get help for his addiction when the final crossroad was set before him preceding my mother’s decision to file for divorce. I also remember pleading with him in the hospital room 2.5 years ago when he barely survived an episode of DT’s. I remember exactly what I said. I can’t go through this again. This is your chance to start fresh. I want you to be here. I need you to be here. I want you to be there for my children. You have to do this, for you and for me. My pleas were met with complete, painful silence. I desperately wanted him to want me in return. To fight for me. To tell me that I was worth it. I’ve craved it my entire life. I never have and never will hear those words. His death will always be a painful reminder that I will never know the fulfillment of that hunger.
Forgiveness was the center point of my first blog. God has brought me so far in my understanding of forgiveness, but he’s taught me so much more just over the last few months. I’ve questioned whether or not I’ve truly forgiven my dad. For example, writing that last paragraph caused so many emotions to surface. Sadness. Anger. Helplessness. So often, my idea of forgiveness is one that is completely void of continued sorrow. If I still experience pain when thinking of my dad, have I really forgiven him? I think the incredibly wise Rafiki explains it best.
The past hurts. That pain is not irrelevant. It can’t be ignored. Rather, it must be acknowledged and built upon. I may be at the point that I’m no longer angry with my father, but I am angry that he is gone. I have freed him from the resentment of the things he did and said, but I’m still incredibly sad that we didn’t share the unbreakable bond that fathers and daughters should have together. Part of me has been feeling guilty for continuing to have these emotions.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard the Easter story – multiple sermons, multiple lessons, multiple proclamations of new life and hope through Jesus. This year, my mind was drawn to a different part of the story.
Now Thomas, one of the Twelve, was not with the disciples when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord!”
But he said to them, “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”
A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.”
Thomas said to him, “My Lord and my God!”
– John 20:24-28
I have a lot of scars – A muffler burn on my leg from a PCB trip, a hairless strip on my scalp from my brother throwing a rock at my head, and a big line under my eyebrow resulting from an unfortunate tire swing incident (to name a few). Every time I look at my arms and legs, I see the scars from the road rash and surgeries resulting from my scooter accident. Each of these scars tells a story. They represent something painful I experienced, and the healing that my body went through as a result.
I absolutely love the fact that Jesus retained the marks of his execution after the resurrection. His life had been restored, but he still bore the scars of the crucifixion. Because of these scars, Thomas was finally able to understand the love Jesus had for him. They were a testimony the pain he endured, and the triumph that came three short days later.
My idea of what it means to forgive my dad and move past his death in a healthy way has leaned toward the idea of getting to a place in which my current life is not negatively affected by our experiences together. The pressure of this has been overwhelming. The older I get, the more I realize how many emotional scars I bare. The scars of low self-esteem, difficulty building relationships, and lack of worth seem to affect almost every aspect of my life. Some of these wounds are still healing, and I will bear the scars of my father's decisions forever. I’m trying to accept that forgiveness doesn’t negate the past. It can’t magically “fix” the qualities I have as the result of our struggles. My dad DID have a huge impact in my life, both positively and negatively, and I have to remind myself that it’s okay. The scars I bare serve as a reminder of the pain I’ve experienced, as well as the healing that has (and will continue) to come. Just like the scars of Jesus served as a testimony to the power of God to reconcile, I can only pray that my scars will do the same.
As I said earlier, facing Father’s Day has never been easy. While the feelings I’m experiencing this weekend are in no way foreign to me, there is a bit more hopelessness. This has allowed negative thoughts to flourish. If I wasn’t worth it to my father – the one who created me – how can I possibly be worth it to anyone else? As this thought entered my mind, like it has so many times before, I was quickly met with a divine rebuttal. The scars of Jesus remind me that I was worth it to my Father – the one who created me, and THAT is something to celebrate today.
Happy Father’s Day.
Father to the fatherless, defender of widows – this is God, whose dwelling is holy.
-Psalm 68:5
