The Day My Father
Died
June 24, 2002
As a boy I used to wear my dad's shoes and pretend
I could fill them. I studied his walk and mimicked it. I adored
my dad and wanted, more than anything, to be like him. That's
why I used to get in so many fist-fights. My dad used to box
professionally and nothing pleased him more than for me to meet
a kid after school in an alley. That's also why I became the
class clown and spent more time in the principal's office than
any other student in school. My dad knew more jokes than
anybody--except maybe me.
After I moved out of my parents home to attend
college at the University of Texas at Austin, I pretty much
disconnected from my dad. Or, he disconnected from me. I'm not
sure which best described what happened. Anyway, I finished
college, graduated from seminary, pastored a church in Houston
and then--20 years ago moved to Oregon. I lived here for 13
years and called my dad every few weeks.
Seven years ago dad, due to failing health, moved
in with my family. I celebrated, certain we would connect on a
deeper level. It never happened. Instead, after a few months he
called me into his room and said, "I thought you should know,
you're not my son." Dad told me this on a weekly basis for two
years. Finally, he agreed to a DNA test which proved, much to
his surprise, that I was indeed his son.
More than anything else I wanted my dad's
affirmation. Yet every time he blessed me--he stole it away with
a degrading, and hurtful, comment.
Last December 29th I drove dad to the hospital. I
remained with him through the day. Sensing he would soon die,
time and again he said, "Son, I love you." I appreciated his
words, but feared he would steal them back the next day. When
they admitted dad to a room I left him at 4:00 PM. That night
the hospital called and told me dad was dying. On December 30th
at 5:10 AM dad passed away. I stood at his side with both hands
on his chest, when after 87 years of life, he took his last
breath.
I thought it ironic that Dad blessed me and then
died before he could take the blessing away. God must have been
smiling.
I was uncertain how I would feel about dad after
his death. He had wounded me often and deeply. Three days after
he died I found a pair of his shoes while cleaning out his
closet. I remembered wearing them as a boy. I remembered walking
in his steps. And then a miracle happened--God washed away my
feelings of ill-will and replaced them with a childlike
affection. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
I'm thankful for my dad. I appreciate the fact
that he gave me a sense of humor and a sense of destiny. I still
remember his rough beard and the smell of Old Spice. But I know
that I do not want to wait until the last day of my life to give
my boys the blessing they so desperately need from their dad.
One day I too will die. And my sons will clean out
my closet. I pray when they see my shoes and remember walking in
them, they'll recall the many times I hugged them, wrestled with
them, kissed them, and told them how very much I love them.
|
