Words for my Dad
I will remember you
I don’t believe in heaven as an afterlife, which isn’t to say I’ve ruled it out in my mind as a possibility. Where other people have answers and certainty and faith, I have questions and curiosity and a willingness to accept whatever may come. On the outside, our experience after death is a black box, and I have always had the sense that when we can finally open it we will find something beautiful, something peaceful. Until then, we are still free to think about what it might mean if it were this or that inside, and gently shake it like a Christmas present in November.
I have compelling reasons for none of the following ideas, but they are what I hear when I shake that box. It is natural for me to think about people who have passed away to be somewhere still, watching over us. And it is natural for me to think that wherever they are, they can see clearly what was difficult for them to see while they were alive. Like astronauts looking down for the first time at the planet that is their home, their celestial perspective lets them understand their lives in a new way. And it is natural for me to think they can hear what we say, at least what we say to them. And when that’s me out there, I want people to feel like they can say to me whatever they need to.
When that’s me out there, please remember that.
Dad, if you can hear me, I miss you. You had to leave just when we were finally getting to know each other. A couple years ago, I told you I was lonely and you came over just so we could talk. We took a walk and you helped me carry my burden for a time, and we found that piece from Guess Who? that had your name on it out on the sidewalk, just that one piece, it was almost a little spooky.
At your service I wished to focus on the reasons I admire you, the reasons I’ll miss you, the side of you that everyone knows and loves, and somehow leave the door open for people to know and understand the parts they might not have seen. You deserve to be remembered and loved as you were, not a version of you that didn’t really exist.
I’ve asked you about some of the darkest moments in our home when I was just a child, because they still follow me. You told me you don’t remember. Do you remember now? Here’s something new, Mom says she doesn’t remember now either. We’ve talked about it so many times before and it is all there in her journal. Maybe she doesn’t want to remember.
I don’t know what to say now at your service, or if I should even go. The thought of silently carrying all that shame that really isn’t mine to carry makes me want to open the box now, but I’ll wait. If they wish to remember a man that didn’t really exist, who didn’t do those things, I should just let them. But I will remember you.
I’ll remember the way you looked sometimes as we watched Touched By an Angel together as a family, during the moment when the angel revealed herself, always a moment of grace. I would look over and see your mouth silently agape and tears streaming down your face, and whisper to my brother or sister so they too could witness this rare display of vulnerability. The memory is beautiful to me for reasons that only make sense when I remember the darker moments too. I will wonder whether an angel sat beside you as you honked for help in that final hour and if you had a moment like that yourself. I will wonder if you finally found that grace, and if I’ll ever find that grace. I love you, Dad, I’ll miss you.
There are healthy Christian homes and there are homes full of darkness and insanity, and they all gather together on Sundays, and Christianity as I have experienced it is weak sauce for doing anything to help. Promise Keepers? What a joke. Giving any one person in a family the final word on everything is going to be a disaster. It is going to be a disaster for you and for your children. When I write about the abuse I experienced, I hear from so many friends and strangers that experienced the same thing or worse. Especially in this area, Parker and Castle Rock and Franktown.
There is something deeply insidious about the abuse that happens in Christian homes that is packaged as love. That is not love. Love is patient, love is kind. Love always protects. Love does not terrorize you. Love does not cover up abuse.
I don’t think it is a coincidence how close we are to Focus on the Family. I don’t think it is a coincidence that it was the voice of Dr. James Dobson that echoed through our house every morning. I believe we live at an epicenter of domestic abuse and silent suffering. Keep in mind that it was Todd Harker that was our pastor for a part of this time. It was people at this very service who saw us every Sunday but didn’t know or want to know or knew but didn’t do anything, maybe because it didn’t seem like their place. And because we were homeschooled, there was no escape. If there was going to be an escape, this was it. But this was not it.
In a little while you may hear an invitation from Pastor Todd Harker. But I have an invitation today, especially to the young people in the room, to believe exactly none of it. Especially the parts you recognize as insane.
Protect your sanity, it is precious. If you are a victim of abuse, don’t be ashamed, that’s not your shame to carry. Talk to a fried. Talk to someone you can trust. You can talk to me. I want to help.
If you have someone in your life or someone from your past that you love but that you’ve never been able to talk openly about, you can talk to me. I want to hear about it.