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I recently came across a manila envelope full of old photographs that a family member sent me shortly after my father died. At the time, I took a cursory look and closed the envelope to examine later when it hurt less. I'm not sure how to explain my grief at the loss of my father when our relationship was so conflicted. All I know for sure is that he was the center of my life for as long as I'd been alive and then suddenly he was gone and I came undone.
Until the day he died, my life was focused on trying to win his approval, be a good daughter. I worked in his insurance agency for a long time. My husband and I managed my parent's property for them, doing home repairs, keeping up their five acres. When he had a minor heart attack, mom moved in with us and we fed her, changed her, and kept her for quite some time. It was something we did frequently anyway (My mom had multiple sclerosis and was completely dependent). He would show up at 5:00am, wheel mom into the house and bellow, "Are you STILL sleeping, kid?" in a tone of disapproval and incredulity, and then he'd be off again, without explanation, and mom was ours until he came back again, sometimes hours later and other times not for days.
My husband and I were happy to help because we loved and respected my dad. But he was so cuttingly critical, so impossible to please, that I found myself finally pulling away. I remember the day we told him we were moving to Papua New Guinea and he said, "You'll never do it. You're too weak." I was struck to the core by the obvious fact that my father couldn't or wouldn't see the truth of me, that I was anything but weak.
We went and it floored him. I saw it on his face when we said goodbye at the airport. My mom was crying and I hugged her hard, thinking it was quite possible we would lose her while we were gone. It never occurred to me that we might lose my father, but it wasn't mom who died while we were gone, it was him.
Anyway, I recently found those photos and I opened them again. There were pictures of me when I was very little, pictures of me with my dad. In one, I was standing on his hands and he was lying on the floor, bench-pressing me. In another, he was carrying me across a creek, walking on a fallen log. I was in a yellow sundress. He looked rugged, young, and strong. There were pictures of me and dad side-by-side in the sand, on a boat, on a motorcycle. I didn't remember any of that.
I now know there was a time when he loved me. The pictures tell that story. I think that maybe he always did. Something happened when mom got sick. He turned against me, could not tolerate me. There's really no point in my guessing why.
Recently, my oldest daughter was talking about childhood memories, and I was struck by her perception of things. My first reaction was one of hurt. She's hard on me. Then I remembered something I said to my dad shortly before we left for PNG. He snapped, "Why do you always act like you're being attacked?" I answered honestly, "Because I've learned to expect it, Dad. You attack me so frequently, without provocation, that I brace myself for it." I remember seeing a flash of recognition in his eyes. He dropped it immediately because it was true and any conversation would require that he own it, which was something he either could not or would not do.
So, when my daughter looked at me with accusation in her eyes, I let it pierce right through me, allowed myself to feel the painful truth that I was often unfair to her. There were times when I showed shades of my father in parenting her. I was demanding, critical, and unfair. It sucks. I'd like to say that she's wrong. To paint her in shades of disturbed, as my dad did to me, like my brother still does. But I can't do it. I own what I own and the truth is that I was not fair to her. We adopted her when she was four and she came with a plethora of behavior problems, disorders, blah blah blah... But the fact that she was an extraordinarily difficult child does not excuse my unfairness to her.
And yet I loved her. I love her still. We are complex creatures and all too often don't understand ourselves.
She may never forgive me for my shortcomings and failings as a parent, but I know that she loves me. Perhaps it's because she also remembers the good times, how desperately hard I fought to get her the help she needed, how tirelessly I advocated for her. I won't dismiss the wrong I did by saying something stupid like I'm only human or nobody's perfect. That's so weak. We should take responsibility for our actions. My dad taught me that when he utterly failed to take responsibility for his. Had he acknowledged what he'd done, apologized. It would have meant a lot. So, I struggle to do better than that. I am my father's daughter, yes, but I am more than that.
What's the point of all this? I suppose my point is that we hurt the people we love. We all do. And while it IS a part of being human, we should not shrug it off. I believe in kindness, I do. I believe in forgiveness too.
Some day I will die and my children will have their pictures and memories of me. I don't expect them to put me on a pedestal. I don't belong there. I just hope that they'll be able to look back and see that I loved them, that they were everything to me. I hope they remember the good and the bad and the times I said, I was sorry. I hope they take the best of me, learn from the worst of me, and that they don't waste one moment of their lives worrying that my parental failings were somehow their fault, because they were not, no more so than my father's failings were my responsibility. In the end, we do the best that we can and hopefully move forward and continue to love however imperfectly.
©Just Kate, April 2010
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Amanda, I came back to delete this post then found your comment, read it, and suddenly knew that it was okay to leave it up, because of your words. Thank you.
Kym, I always expected that, in time, my dad and I would find our way to at least an uneasy peace. I didn't expect him die like that, so suddenly. Looking back, I know I did the best that I could to find an open door, but he was locked down tight. What I do have are the letters he wrote to me when I was overseas. From that great physical distance, he was finally kind. I can speculate as to why but I'll never know. I'm simply thankful for the small grace of those written words.
I'm glad you still have your dad and have found a measure of peace. For better or worse, you belong to one another. :) Thank you for sharing a piece of your story. It means a lot to me.
I wonder: you mention that it's pointless to figure out why he couldn't tolerate you after your mother got sick. I'll bet you can't help trying to figure it out though.
The reason I make that guess: I'm still working on trying to figure out why my father didn't seem to like me at all. In investigating ADD, another piece of the puzzle *might* have plopped into place: I distinctly recall him complaining about me being in my head so much. Wasn't much I could do about it at the time: I was who I was and further, I wasn't even self-aware yet.
Yet he and my brother (who I adore) seemed to like each other well enough. My brother is NOT in his head as I am.
Ah well. I suppose you can get a headache in trying to figure this all out.
So cool to read about how your own parenting relates to your daughter. I think you're right: ownership has such a key role in how we relate later on, and more importantly - I think it probably affects our ability to evolve from parents to friends.
I've also recently had to face my shortcomings to my son. So many things I could have done better. So many times I've displayed the very behavior I grew up with, behavior that makes my skin crawl. It's hard to admit we're wrong, but in trying to become a better person I've realized that the people we are most accountable to are our children. They deserve our unconditional love and support. Period. Sure, they need structure and discipline, but at the end of the day they need to know their parents love them enough to admit when they're wrong. Love them enough to never lose sight of the good in them and always try to see them for who they are and want to be.
Beautiful post, Kate... thank you.
Hey, Doug, are you familiar with a book by M. Scott Peck called The People of the Lie? I thought of it immediately when I read your first paragraph. In the book, Peck talks about the problem of human evil. It exists. And he uses chilling examples of case-studies. One study in particular resonated with me deeply because of the way the parents treated their two sons so differently. The favored son committed suicide, shot himself. They blamed other son, the unloved one, for his death. Then, for Christmas, I think, he received the very gun that his brother had used to kill himself with as a PRESENT from his parents. When questioned about their behavior the parents claimed to see nothing wrong with presenting the weapon as a gift. I remember reading that and feeling this profound sense of security that I'm not insane. Things like that *DO* happen. Parents don't always love their children equally or at all. I suppose I'll spend the rest of my life, watching for affirmation of the truth that I grew up with.
Anyway, yes, I do question why my dad treated me as he did. I think about it all the time. Sometimes I think I'm pretty close to understanding him, but in the end, there's no point in making all those guesses. I'll never know what drove him. What I do know is that he was complex, comprised of much darkness and light. My brother idolizes him and seeks to emulate him as a parent. I seek to learn from my childhood experiences so as NOT to emulate him. *wry smile* We were biological siblings, growing up in the same home but we might as well have been on different planets. My brother lived on planet Privilege and I lived on planet Pain.
Maybe your father's behavior toward you was tied into your personality. Maybe. When we parents say that we treat all of our children the same, we're lying to ourselves. We no more treat them the same than we do the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. People are people. We like some better than others. It's a matter of chemistry and a million other complexities. We could drive ourselves batty trying to figure it out. I bet your dad couldn't have articulated it himself.
I love my children. I would die for any one of them without a moments hesitation, but I love them each differently. It should be okay to say that, because there's absolutely NOTHING wrong with it. If we can get rid of the lies we're taught to believe about parents and parenting, maybe we'll be better at it. :)
Rebecca, I had the same revelation about my brother! After our parents died, I felt responsible for his increasingly horrendous behavior toward me and my family. I kept trying to make it better, thinking that I had the power to change him, but nothing I did seemed to make a difference.
Then one day I realized it was HIM not me; I wasn't responsible for his awful behavior, I was only responsible for whether or not I would continue to expose myself and my family to it. With that realization, I ended our relationship, such as it was. It was painful but it set me free. I don't miss him. I only miss the brother I wished he'd been, the one in my fantasies. I don't miss the real thing.
As for being accountable to our children, yes! We need to give them unconditional love and support. That doesn't always look like sunshine and roses and unicorns flying over rainbows though. Sometimes it means making the hard choice that might even leave them hating us for awhile. Sometimes it means saying NO instead of YES. Sometimes it means we let them learn the hard way because there's no other way they're going to get it.
There's nothing easy about parenting. It's the hardest endeavor I've ever undertaken. It's also the most rewarding by far. I own some of what I get blamed for and some of it I don't! *grins* I try to be scrupulously honest about what I *DO* own and firm about what I don't. For example, I own the fact that I was overly critical of our oldest daughter's tendency to yell instead of talk. It was a mistake for me to criticize her so much for being loud. That being said, I am not responsible for her decision to, say, smoke. She owns that one.
There's so much balance that's required in parenting. I find consolation in the fact that it's really a VERY HARD JOB and I'm thankful that every now and then I seem to get it right. :)
You are so "real" Katy and I enjoy everything of yours that I read. Love to you my friend, Annette B.
In looking at them not only do we feel a resurgance of those memories, we also take a trip back finding bits long forgotten and maybe learn a lesson or two now through those memories.
♥
Anyway, reading your blog reminded me of that. You've written many times of your father, this may be your best. It especially warmed my heart to see how you are owning up to your own failures and trying to learn from the past to make the future better. You have a heart of gold, my friend. I love that about you. I'm reminded of the moment in The Shack where the guy meets his father in heaven. Remember that scene? I can't wait for you to have that moment with your Dad and issues are finally resolved.
Annette, I was very loved by my mother, too. I imagine things would have been very different had she not been so very ill.
I think about my dad a lot, which is obviously, I'm sure, based on the many times I've written of him. He was such a GOOD man, so moral and kind and generous. I admired him HUGELY and couldn't figure out why he was so wonderful to everyone else. His goodness to others, especially my brother, in contrast to his cruelty to me has been the preoccupation of my life. I feel like I still learn from him nearly ever day, from the bad as much as the good.
Thankfully, I have been blessed with older men who have loved me well all through my life, my surrogate fathers. When I was growing up, some of my best friends were men in their 70s and 80s - gentle men who saw good in me, treated me kindly, and spent time with me. I'm thankful to God for putting them in my life. To this day, one of my best friends is an 80-something-year-old man who calls me "daughter." :) Blessed, I am.
I love you, too, my friend. Thank you for sharing my blogs with your friends and family, too. xoxo
Beautifully and succinctly said, Chickee. :) You cut right to the chase. I am taking out the literal and metaphorical pictures of my past and learning from them, letting them instruct my future and hopefully help me to become a better person.
Much love, my friend. xo
Donna, I'm grateful that Annette sent you over, that you came, and that you have shared your thoughts and perceptions. :) I learn a lot through interacting with people in blog comments. It's one of the main reasons I blog, actually.
I had to read your comment several times to process it. I have never thought of it that way, not ever. I was raised constantly hearing how weak, bad, and selfish I was. I internalized those judgments and spent my entire life subconsciously trying to prove them wrong.
On the surface, my brother is very strong. He has always been one of those golden people who succeeds at everything - a straight A student, gifted athlete, successful businessman. On the surface, he has always been the boy or man that other boys and men want to be. Anyone who knows him now or knew him back when would likely agree with me.
Several years ago, my elderly pastor friend met my brother and told me he saw a man who was afraid of losing, a man who had to win at all costs, a man with a fragile ego tightly locked inside an iron veneer of confidence. I was shocked. It challenged everything I'd ever believed to be true about my brother. I thought my pastor friend was mistaken.
But perhaps he saw the same thing that you see. Is it possible that I was the stronger sibling? Yes.
I'm grateful for your insight and your willingness to share it. You're not off-base at all. I have a million thoughts and memories chasing themselves around inside my head, all owed to the comment you've left here. Sometimes we find pieces of truth in the most unexpected places. :)
Thank you, again, Donna.
I love the story about the young man that spoke at your church, Jay. :)
I have never sought to tear-down my father. I have only sought to understand him. I admired him hugely and have written of his kindness, generosity, and intelligence. I don't think we ever arrived at a holiday gathering on time because my dad would stop to help every stranded motorist we encountered on the five hour drive across the state. :) He was amazing that way. He was also a successful businessman who lived simply and spent money on people not things. He had a passion for helping others pursue their dreams. He was a good man, Jay.
It's through my father that I learned the deep truth that we are all comprised of darkness and light. People cannot be categorized as either "good" or "bad." We're way too complex for that.
In the end, I cannot change what was. What you've seen in me is a struggle to come to terms with the hard truth that I am not the things I was named as a child. I am not intrinsically "bad," the Esau to my brother's Jacob. I'm just a person, no better or worse than anyone else. I own what I own but I don't own EVERYTHING. That might sound silly, but it's a huge revelation for me. :)
I'm learning and growing all the time. I am seeing more and more of my father in me, in good ways and bad. I hope that somehow my Dad sees me struggling and knows that I'm getting it, that I've been able to travel a little farther than he did. That I'm learning to say, I'm sorry to my children when I need to. That I'm not afraid that my mistakes mean I'm worthless. :) I think he'd be happy if he could see my HEART.
I'm not even trying to write about ME here. :) What I meant to write about what my humanity, our shared human condition. That's what I'm always aiming for, to find the greater truth about all of us, so we can help one another be better. Does that make sense?
You're father left quite a mark on you. I thought you might like this passage from Chuck Swindoll:
Just thank the Giver of every good and perfect gift for the meaningful marks your dad has branded on the core or your character...the wholesome habits he has woven into the fabric of your flesh. While meandering through this forest of nostalgia, stop at the great oak named Proverbs and reflect upon the words the wise man carved into the bark twenty nine centuries ago: "A righteous man walks in integrity, How blessed are his sons (and daughters) after him."
He is not perfect. He would be the first to admit it. Nor is he infallible, much to his dismay. Nor altogether fair...nor always right. But there's one thing he is-always and altogether-he is your dad...the only one you'll ever have. And quite frankly, there's only one thing he needs on Father's Day-plain and simple-he needs to hear you say four words:
Dad, I love you.
I understand what you're saying, Jay, but the Swindoll quote was painful. My dad would not have welcomed an "I love you" from me. He would have hated it and I would have paid for it. I loved him and appreciated him for all the good I saw in him. I will always love him. But he was what he was with me.
So many thoughts and trails to follow as I read your piece and then the comments that follow. Some things resonate more with me than others because we all relate events to ourselves thru our own filters.
Memories of my childhood are tenuous things that often dance away from close examination. Memories of my father are a quick waterfall of images and emotion that sometimes wash me clean and other times pound me into an emotional puddle. I often wonder what he would remember of my childhood if he were alive today.
I have spent years trying to understand him. It is only as I examine my own life and parenting that I think I begin to see and appreciate the things he did. I would love to call him up and ask advice, or have him over to help with some little fix-it project around the house. That is what he excelled at and why he looked at me with some disappointment.
But father/child relations is not what sticks in my head as I read this. What leaps off the screen is this .."That's what I'm always aiming for, to find the greater truth about all of us, so we can help one another be better."
I believe that what you write, and your openness about painful subjects and the very personal treatment you give them, gives us all not just permission to examine our feelings, but almost a compulsion to do so. This self-examination and the catharsis is often brings accomplishes your stated goal.
I will never fully understand my father, nor you yours. I'm not sure doing so would make me better or worse. What I do know is that I am a better person for having known you. For reading your writings. For thinking about the greater truth inside me, inside you, inside our fathers.
I am a better person because of you.
I want to call my dad, too. Sometimes I pick up the phone and start dialing only to realize he's been gone nearly 14 years and I can't ask his opinion about things like the economy and housing market. He had an unerring instinct for political and social trends. He'd have a wise and well rounded answer about Obamacare. God, I loved listening to him. I used to hide under the dining room table late at night just to listen to him talk with my grandpa about politics and religion. They were so damn brilliant.
And, like you, I wonder what he would remember about the past. He told me so little of his own childhood, just enough for me to have a deep sense of resonance. He was a child who worked hard, tried to do the right thing, and prayed for deliverance to a God he quickly lost faith in. His life was hard. He sacrificed nearly all of his dreams. He was surrounded by people and yet I believe he was a lonely man.
Yet, my preoccupation with him isn't really about HIM so much as it is a preoccupation with people and a desire to understand my world. He gave me much to ponder with his complexity and depth, with the darkness and light that he encompassed. I feel privileged to have known the challenge of him.
But it's not, in the end, about my story, which is simply a vehicle, as you have correctly discerned. I have a nearly insatiable need for people to think with me. I have a compulsion to provoke thought, to find meaning, to create healing. It means the world to me that you *SEE* me.
I miss your friendship, I do. Wish you'd been born my brother.
You didn't upset me, Jay. You just brought more light to the truth that people are so very complex. The words "I love you" should be healing to hear but some people simply cannot tolerate them. It's no wonder people struggle so hugely with the concept of a loving God. There are people who simply can't let their guard down far enough to let love in. I know, I used to be one of them.
I don't want to live my life surrounded by butterflies and sunshine and elevator music, my friend. Sometimes a good sharp bit of pain is a good thing. :)
And, yes, I did understand exactly what you intended. You know me, always gotta follow those tangential thoughts.
I just took a four day road trip with my oldest son (23). On the last day, he asked me some very hard question about why we did things that we did in raising him (and his siblings). It was painful, and eye opening to us both. Yet...it was definitely a good thing that he asked.
What you wrote is confirmation of one of my favorite aphorisms; "Children are God's way of making new adults...out of their parents."
I so loooooove this.... of course. :)
It is hard to break the chains... to get past generational behaviors and teachings. I saw my parents as the type that were tortured with wanting so badly to break the mold, but confined by it.
In that they gave me the type of experience that allowed me to grow and break it.
My point is, you are doing that for your children.
It reads like you are that parent. You have suffered through many lessons that they are going to benefit learning from you.
I love your inquisitive mind. :)
I have to tell you how much your writing lifts me up. It is always so compassionate and true. Thank you for sharing with such honesty- Amanda
Amanda, I came back to delete this post then found your comment, read it, and suddenly knew that it was okay to leave it up, because of your words. Thank you.
Strong words! I can relate to this, Katy. For a long time I truly thought that my dad hated me. He was always critical, very strict, demanding and didn't seem to trust me. I internalized it, fought with anorexia and in the midst of counseling for my eating disorder found that his idea of love was to protect me & to try to make me the best that I could be. He didn't truly understand me or know how much the words hurt. I spoke with my father and things have been a bit better since then even if we sometimes do not understand each other. -Kym
Kym, I always expected that, in time, my dad and I would find our way to at least an uneasy peace. I didn't expect him die like that, so suddenly. Looking back, I know I did the best that I could to find an open door, but he was locked down tight. What I do have are the letters he wrote to me when I was overseas. From that great physical distance, he was finally kind. I can speculate as to why but I'll never know. I'm simply thankful for the small grace of those written words.
I'm glad you still have your dad and have found a measure of peace. For better or worse, you belong to one another. :) Thank you for sharing a piece of your story. It means a lot to me.
Many of us have figured out that people generally aren't inherently evil (though a few clearly are); and that there are reasons for their behaviour.
I wonder: you mention that it's pointless to figure out why he couldn't tolerate you after your mother got sick. I'll bet you can't help trying to figure it out though.
The reason I make that guess: I'm still working on trying to figure out why my father didn't seem to like me at all. In investigating ADD, another piece of the puzzle *might* have plopped into place: I distinctly recall him complaining about me being in my head so much. Wasn't much I could do about it at the time: I was who I was and further, I wasn't even self-aware yet.
Yet he and my brother (who I adore) seemed to like each other well enough. My brother is NOT in his head as I am.
Ah well. I suppose you can get a headache in trying to figure this all out.
So cool to read about how your own parenting relates to your daughter. I think you're right: ownership has such a key role in how we relate later on, and more importantly - I think it probably affects our ability to evolve from parents to friends.
Kate, I'm so glad you didn't delete this post! I'm going through a similar sitation with my parents and my son. I can't control my parents behavior towards me, but at this point in my life I've learned I can control how much it affects my life and my own family.
I've also recently had to face my shortcomings to my son. So many things I could have done better. So many times I've displayed the very behavior I grew up with, behavior that makes my skin crawl. It's hard to admit we're wrong, but in trying to become a better person I've realized that the people we are most accountable to are our children. They deserve our unconditional love and support. Period. Sure, they need structure and discipline, but at the end of the day they need to know their parents love them enough to admit when they're wrong. Love them enough to never lose sight of the good in them and always try to see them for who they are and want to be.
Beautiful post, Kate... thank you.
@wolfshades.com
Hey, Doug, are you familiar with a book by M. Scott Peck called The People of the Lie? I thought of it immediately when I read your first paragraph. In the book, Peck talks about the problem of human evil. It exists. And he uses chilling examples of case-studies. One study in particular resonated with me deeply because of the way the parents treated their two sons so differently. The favored son committed suicide, shot himself. They blamed other son, the unloved one, for his death. Then, for Christmas, I think, he received the very gun that his brother had used to kill himself with as a PRESENT from his parents. When questioned about their behavior the parents claimed to see nothing wrong with presenting the weapon as a gift. I remember reading that and feeling this profound sense of security that I'm not insane. Things like that *DO* happen. Parents don't always love their children equally or at all. I suppose I'll spend the rest of my life, watching for affirmation of the truth that I grew up with.
Anyway, yes, I do question why my dad treated me as he did. I think about it all the time. Sometimes I think I'm pretty close to understanding him, but in the end, there's no point in making all those guesses. I'll never know what drove him. What I do know is that he was complex, comprised of much darkness and light. My brother idolizes him and seeks to emulate him as a parent. I seek to learn from my childhood experiences so as NOT to emulate him. *wry smile* We were biological siblings, growing up in the same home but we might as well have been on different planets. My brother lived on planet Privilege and I lived on planet Pain.
Maybe your father's behavior toward you was tied into your personality. Maybe. When we parents say that we treat all of our children the same, we're lying to ourselves. We no more treat them the same than we do the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. People are people. We like some better than others. It's a matter of chemistry and a million other complexities. We could drive ourselves batty trying to figure it out. I bet your dad couldn't have articulated it himself.
I love my children. I would die for any one of them without a moments hesitation, but I love them each differently. It should be okay to say that, because there's absolutely NOTHING wrong with it. If we can get rid of the lies we're taught to believe about parents and parenting, maybe we'll be better at it. :)
@Rebecca Hoffman
Rebecca, I had the same revelation about my brother! After our parents died, I felt responsible for his increasingly horrendous behavior toward me and my family. I kept trying to make it better, thinking that I had the power to change him, but nothing I did seemed to make a difference.
Then one day I realized it was HIM not me; I wasn't responsible for his awful behavior, I was only responsible for whether or not I would continue to expose myself and my family to it. With that realization, I ended our relationship, such as it was. It was painful but it set me free. I don't miss him. I only miss the brother I wished he'd been, the one in my fantasies. I don't miss the real thing.
As for being accountable to our children, yes! We need to give them unconditional love and support. That doesn't always look like sunshine and roses and unicorns flying over rainbows though. Sometimes it means making the hard choice that might even leave them hating us for awhile. Sometimes it means saying NO instead of YES. Sometimes it means we let them learn the hard way because there's no other way they're going to get it.
There's nothing easy about parenting. It's the hardest endeavor I've ever undertaken. It's also the most rewarding by far. I own some of what I get blamed for and some of it I don't! *grins* I try to be scrupulously honest about what I *DO* own and firm about what I don't. For example, I own the fact that I was overly critical of our oldest daughter's tendency to yell instead of talk. It was a mistake for me to criticize her so much for being loud. That being said, I am not responsible for her decision to, say, smoke. She owns that one.
There's so much balance that's required in parenting. I find consolation in the fact that it's really a VERY HARD JOB and I'm thankful that every now and then I seem to get it right. :)
Ahhhh...another good write from my dear friend. My so-called real dad did not want me and I have seen him twice in my life. My step-dad who my mom married when I was around 2 called me stupid and many other names and I never could stand the man. My dad now is who I consider my dad, but don't truly feel close to any "dad" here on earth. Guess I have come to terms with it and don't think much about it anymore. My mom has more than made up for the lack of a dad, maybe a little too much by being a bit smothering in her love for me. But, she grew up with a dad very much like yours and wanted so much to be different from him.
You are so "real" Katy and I enjoy everything of yours that I read. Love to you my friend, Annette B.
Annette, I was very loved by my mother, too. I imagine things would have been very different had she not been so very ill.
I think about my dad a lot, which is obviously, I'm sure, based on the many times I've written of him. He was such a GOOD man, so moral and kind and generous. I admired him HUGELY and couldn't figure out why he was so wonderful to everyone else. His goodness to others, especially my brother, in contrast to his cruelty to me has been the preoccupation of my life. I feel like I still learn from him nearly ever day, from the bad as much as the good.
Thankfully, I have been blessed with older men who have loved me well all through my life, my surrogate fathers. When I was growing up, some of my best friends were men in their 70s and 80s - gentle men who saw good in me, treated me kindly, and spent time with me. I'm thankful to God for putting them in my life. To this day, one of my best friends is an 80-something-year-old man who calls me "daughter." :) Blessed, I am.
I love you, too, my friend. Thank you for sharing my blogs with your friends and family, too. xoxo
Isn't it wonderful that most times we only take pictures of the good times?
In looking at them not only do we feel a resurgance of those memories, we also take a trip back finding bits long forgotten and maybe learn a lesson or two now through those memories.
♥
Beautifully and succinctly said, Chickee. :) You cut right to the chase. I am taking out the literal and metaphorical pictures of my past and learning from them, letting them instruct my future and hopefully help me to become a better person.
Much love, my friend. xo
I think it is very telling that your father changed when your mother got so terribly sick. Some men, who may be quite strong in other ways, do not have the capacity to handle that kind of adversity, and in their own personal pain and anger, they strike out at those they are closest to. Would you say that you were the stronger sibling? Do you think that (perhaps subconsciously) your father felt you could take his wrath better than your brother? His words to you seem so challenging here, as one who envies another her strength, independence, choices, and ability to cope. I wonder if he envied you in some of these ways and was relating to you more on the level of a brother than a father. Does any of this make sense? It's just an impression I had as I read your story, so forgive me if I am off base. You've had a hard life in many ways, and yet it's also been a rich one because you've been open to its lessons, and you've shared them with others. Good luck, Katy. (Annette sent me over here to read.) -Donna
Donna, I'm grateful that Annette sent you over, that you came, and that you have shared your thoughts and perceptions. :) I learn a lot through interacting with people in blog comments. It's one of the main reasons I blog, actually.
I had to read your comment several times to process it. I have never thought of it that way, not ever. I was raised constantly hearing how weak, bad, and selfish I was. I internalized those judgments and spent my entire life subconsciously trying to prove them wrong.
On the surface, my brother is very strong. He has always been one of those golden people who succeeds at everything - a straight A student, gifted athlete, successful businessman. On the surface, he has always been the boy or man that other boys and men want to be. Anyone who knows him now or knew him back when would likely agree with me.
Several years ago, my elderly pastor friend met my brother and told me he saw a man who was afraid of losing, a man who had to win at all costs, a man with a fragile ego tightly locked inside an iron veneer of confidence. I was shocked. It challenged everything I'd ever believed to be true about my brother. I thought my pastor friend was mistaken.
But perhaps he saw the same thing that you see. Is it possible that I was the stronger sibling? Yes.
I'm grateful for your insight and your willingness to share it. You're not off-base at all. I have a million thoughts and memories chasing themselves around inside my head, all owed to the comment you've left here. Sometimes we find pieces of truth in the most unexpected places. :)
Thank you, again, Donna.
Kate, at church yesterday, we had a sharing time at the end of the service. A black teenager came up to speak, very humble and soft spoken. He recounted the time when he was 13 years old, his Mom, who had issues of her own and also drinking too much, kicked him out of the house. Told him he wasn't her kid, that it was time to get out on his own. She had 5 other kids, but decided to kick this one our of her life. I was blown away. He said he didn't know what to do, ended up calling his grandma, who thankfully, took him in. The grace this young man showed was inspiring. He said he kept in touch with his Mom through it all, even thanked her for what she did because it made him stronger. This past year, he said he graduated from high school, he is the first person in his family ever to do so. I had tears streaming down my face as I heard this young man's story.
Anyway, reading your blog reminded me of that. You've written many times of your father, this may be your best. It especially warmed my heart to see how you are owning up to your own failures and trying to learn from the past to make the future better. You have a heart of gold, my friend. I love that about you. I'm reminded of the moment in The Shack where the guy meets his father in heaven. Remember that scene? I can't wait for you to have that moment with your Dad and issues are finally resolved.
I love the story about the young man that spoke at your church, Jay. :)
I have never sought to tear-down my father. I have only sought to understand him. I admired him hugely and have written of his kindness, generosity, and intelligence. I don't think we ever arrived at a holiday gathering on time because my dad would stop to help every stranded motorist we encountered on the five hour drive across the state. :) He was amazing that way. He was also a successful businessman who lived simply and spent money on people not things. He had a passion for helping others pursue their dreams. He was a good man, Jay.
It's through my father that I learned the deep truth that we are all comprised of darkness and light. People cannot be categorized as either "good" or "bad." We're way too complex for that.
In the end, I cannot change what was. What you've seen in me is a struggle to come to terms with the hard truth that I am not the things I was named as a child. I am not intrinsically "bad," the Esau to my brother's Jacob. I'm just a person, no better or worse than anyone else. I own what I own but I don't own EVERYTHING. That might sound silly, but it's a huge revelation for me. :)
I'm learning and growing all the time. I am seeing more and more of my father in me, in good ways and bad. I hope that somehow my Dad sees me struggling and knows that I'm getting it, that I've been able to travel a little farther than he did. That I'm learning to say, I'm sorry to my children when I need to. That I'm not afraid that my mistakes mean I'm worthless. :) I think he'd be happy if he could see my HEART.
I'm not even trying to write about ME here. :) What I meant to write about what my humanity, our shared human condition. That's what I'm always aiming for, to find the greater truth about all of us, so we can help one another be better. Does that make sense?
You always make sense to me, Kate!
You're father left quite a mark on you. I thought you might like this passage from Chuck Swindoll:
Just thank the Giver of every good and perfect gift for the meaningful marks your dad has branded on the core or your character...the wholesome habits he has woven into the fabric of your flesh. While meandering through this forest of nostalgia, stop at the great oak named Proverbs and reflect upon the words the wise man carved into the bark twenty nine centuries ago: "A righteous man walks in integrity, How blessed are his sons (and daughters) after him."
He is not perfect. He would be the first to admit it. Nor is he infallible, much to his dismay. Nor altogether fair...nor always right. But there's one thing he is-always and altogether-he is your dad...the only one you'll ever have. And quite frankly, there's only one thing he needs on Father's Day-plain and simple-he needs to hear you say four words:
Dad, I love you.
I understand what you're saying, Jay, but the Swindoll quote was painful. My dad would not have welcomed an "I love you" from me. He would have hated it and I would have paid for it. I loved him and appreciated him for all the good I saw in him. I will always love him. But he was what he was with me.
Kate,
So many thoughts and trails to follow as I read your piece and then the comments that follow. Some things resonate more with me than others because we all relate events to ourselves thru our own filters.
Memories of my childhood are tenuous things that often dance away from close examination. Memories of my father are a quick waterfall of images and emotion that sometimes wash me clean and other times pound me into an emotional puddle. I often wonder what he would remember of my childhood if he were alive today.
I have spent years trying to understand him. It is only as I examine my own life and parenting that I think I begin to see and appreciate the things he did. I would love to call him up and ask advice, or have him over to help with some little fix-it project around the house. That is what he excelled at and why he looked at me with some disappointment.
But father/child relations is not what sticks in my head as I read this. What leaps off the screen is this .."That's what I'm always aiming for, to find the greater truth about all of us, so we can help one another be better."
I believe that what you write, and your openness about painful subjects and the very personal treatment you give them, gives us all not just permission to examine our feelings, but almost a compulsion to do so. This self-examination and the catharsis is often brings accomplishes your stated goal.
I will never fully understand my father, nor you yours. I'm not sure doing so would make me better or worse. What I do know is that I am a better person for having known you. For reading your writings. For thinking about the greater truth inside me, inside you, inside our fathers.
I am a better person because of you.
I want to call my dad, too. Sometimes I pick up the phone and start dialing only to realize he's been gone nearly 14 years and I can't ask his opinion about things like the economy and housing market. He had an unerring instinct for political and social trends. He'd have a wise and well rounded answer about Obamacare. God, I loved listening to him. I used to hide under the dining room table late at night just to listen to him talk with my grandpa about politics and religion. They were so damn brilliant.
And, like you, I wonder what he would remember about the past. He told me so little of his own childhood, just enough for me to have a deep sense of resonance. He was a child who worked hard, tried to do the right thing, and prayed for deliverance to a God he quickly lost faith in. His life was hard. He sacrificed nearly all of his dreams. He was surrounded by people and yet I believe he was a lonely man.
Yet, my preoccupation with him isn't really about HIM so much as it is a preoccupation with people and a desire to understand my world. He gave me much to ponder with his complexity and depth, with the darkness and light that he encompassed. I feel privileged to have known the challenge of him.
But it's not, in the end, about my story, which is simply a vehicle, as you have correctly discerned. I have a nearly insatiable need for people to think with me. I have a compulsion to provoke thought, to find meaning, to create healing. It means the world to me that you *SEE* me.
I miss your friendship, I do. Wish you'd been born my brother.
Sorry for upsetting you....glad you understand me though! :)
You didn't upset me, Jay. You just brought more light to the truth that people are so very complex. The words "I love you" should be healing to hear but some people simply cannot tolerate them. It's no wonder people struggle so hugely with the concept of a loving God. There are people who simply can't let their guard down far enough to let love in. I know, I used to be one of them.
I don't want to live my life surrounded by butterflies and sunshine and elevator music, my friend. Sometimes a good sharp bit of pain is a good thing. :)
And, yes, I did understand exactly what you intended. You know me, always gotta follow those tangential thoughts.
You know, we grow up, not understanding our parents, often not liking our parents. And yet, they are our parents, and they are imprinted on us. Our kids see it. When they comment to us like you did to you did to your Dad, we suddenly realize that we ARE like them. And then all of a sudden, we begin to understand the pressures that they were under. We begin to grow up, thanks to our children.
I just took a four day road trip with my oldest son (23). On the last day, he asked me some very hard question about why we did things that we did in raising him (and his siblings). It was painful, and eye opening to us both. Yet...it was definitely a good thing that he asked.
What you wrote is confirmation of one of my favorite aphorisms; "Children are God's way of making new adults...out of their parents."
Damn, have I been missing out.... I had no idea you started blogging so much.... I am so sorry Katy, and hell to me too... I have missed out... now I am commenting all over the place.. hahaha...
I so loooooove this.... of course. :)
It is hard to break the chains... to get past generational behaviors and teachings. I saw my parents as the type that were tortured with wanting so badly to break the mold, but confined by it.
In that they gave me the type of experience that allowed me to grow and break it.
My point is, you are doing that for your children.
It reads like you are that parent. You have suffered through many lessons that they are going to benefit learning from you.
I love your inquisitive mind. :)
I'm so glad you're back, Drew. I missed you! :)
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