PENSIEVE

It's kind of like the baking equivalent of sushi, right?

One of my happiest childhood memories is licking the bowl.  Didn't matter whether it was a batch of cookies or batter for a cake, there was something deliciously forbidden about swirling my index finger around the rim of the bowl and savoring the sticky sweetness of sugar and flour and butter--oooh my! 

Susie's mom was the best--she actually left extra in the bowl so there really was enough to savor.  In our home, the bowl was nearly scraped clean; threading tongue through stainless beaters usually yielded a better reward.  Had the beaters been razor sharp, I'd probably be mute by now.

I've never lived in fear of salmonella poisoning from eating raw eggs.  If I think about that too long, it kind of wigs me out, but I've never gotten sick from eating batter or dough and I've never known anyone else to, either.

My husband is a raw dough and batter boy; my children are raw dough and batter kids.  We feel sorry for those who deny themselves the simple pleasure.

The other night my daughter decided to make chocolate chip cookies.  I don't know this for a fact, but I'd wager a quarter of the dough never made it to the pan.  When she finished the last batch, she began "pre-cleaning" the bowl. 

It's important to know she likes chocolate chips in the finished cookie, but her preference is to eat the dough plain.  With no one else around, she accomplished this by scraping dough from the bowl's sides and spooning it in her mouth...but the chips went back into the bowl.

With cookies in the oven for 12-15 minutes, Rachel went up to her room; shortly after, my husband came in from work.  He saw the bowl of dough sitting on the counter, grabbed a spoon and started scraping....

...never questioning why there might be a disproportionate amount of chips.

They aren't making eye contact and still aren't speaking.

Photo credit:  Strychnine on Flickr

Call me anytime...

"Call me anytime."  It was how all my phone calls ended with Daddy, usually the sentence just prior to the "I love yous" that substituted "goodbye". 

Though I never said it, I often thought "YOU call ME!" because I wanted him to want to call me, to be the initiator.  The thing is, I was busy with work, then a husband then a bunch of babies and life in general, and I'm sure he thought it was easier and more convenient for me to call him.  I wonder if I ever gave him the feeling he was interrupting Something Important. I hope not.

Had Lewy Bodies disease not pillaged my father's mind, crippled his body, and chauffeured him to the grave two years ago, he would have been 77 today.  His birthday has always trumpeted the advent of Fall to me, I suppose it's some sort of Pavlovian response to the actual autumnal equinox occurring just prior. 

I can't remember the last birthday I celebrated with him in person and at the moment that bothers me; was a one-way, three hours drive really not worth it?  He wasn't one to make a big deal out of his birthday and he'd discouraged me from coming, and his genuine, pleased response to a phone call indicated that really was all he wanted.

To be remembered.

I get that.

The other day I was walking into a store and I was stopped dead in my tracks:  an elderly gentleman walking out of the store could have been my father.  Never have I seen someone who so closely resembled him--his thinning gray hair, his olive complexion, his slightly softened stature, eye glasses with smudges...and a vacant expression that signaled he wasn't fully present.  I wasn't prepared for this chance encounter and I couldn't help staring through the rain in my eyes.  I wanted to speak to him, a kindness to a familiar stranger, but my feet were anchored and my heart was lodged in my throat.  I watched him as he shuffled to the parking lot.

It was the first reminder his birthday was this week and I could hear him over the din of busy shoppers and subversive grocery store Musak...

"Call me anytime...."

And because I can't...I write...to remember....

Because that mattered to him.

Fathers and daughters

{Originally published as a three-part series in September 2007, this is one of those posts that "someone" needs to read; I just wish I knew who....  If you've struggled with the relationship you share with your father (or mother), it could be you.  Also, you might want to read the original posts if it resonates with you--comments were poignant and raw.

** lyrics Mike and the Mechanics, "In the Living Years"

Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door**

Fathers and daughters....

It is through a father's eyes a young girl first believes she is a princess, she is beautiful, and she is capable of anything her unbound mind can imagine. 

In her return gaze, without the words to express it, she sees him as warrior-provider, hero-protector, and first love.  Some would suggest it is in her father that a daughter will construct her first impressions of God.

What a powerful relationship...what opportunity...what potential danger.

I know that I'm a prisoner
To all my father held so dear
I know that I'm a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years

Because, understandably, parents want the "best" for their children, they teach and challenge and encourage them.  They provide opportunity through education, the arts, athletics, and in a best-case scenario, there's balance.

Along the way, these babies grow and mature, each day and month and year marking an increase in independence, sometimes quite noticeable--the emphatic exclamation of a three-year-old, "I.do.it.MYSELF!"--other times imperceptible--the subtlety of a 14-year-old wearing lip gloss, but no longer just to balm chapped lips.

Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I'm afraid that's all we've got

I had several moments of "childhood interrupted", events that would alter and determine, at least in part, who I would eventually become:  the divorce of my parents, which many sources would tell you is blighting to a child, but for me, strangely, wasn't a horrible thing (we continued to see my father every day and at least my parents' arguing was silenced); most likely that was over-shadowed by the truly devastating death of my mother when I was nine, and my paternal grandmother's death the following year (with whom we were very close).

These things facilitated an accelerated maturity for me and my siblings, and we learned to cope with adult fare at an early age.  I'm convinced that is a skill learned early in life which has served me well, and although certainly I would rather my mother have lived, I'm thankful for this tiny piece of seen redemption from such a great loss. 

When I celebrated my 39th birthday, I realized I had out-lived my mother. When each of my three children reached their third grade year in school, I was thankful, and to some degree, relieved, at its completion; not so much for my own life and health, but that they still had their mom.  It is not "normal" to not have a mom when you're a kid; to this day, I never presume any child I meet has both parents living...  residual wake with no apparent ending, I suppose.

You say you just don't see it
He says it's perfect sense
You just can't get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defense

The way I viewed my father changed often throughout my life; I think he was more consistent in how he saw me.  He always thought I was smart and beautiful and could accomplish just about anything I set my mind to; he was always proud of me and he found ways to express his love, sometimes verbally, more often not.

That being said, it was far from a "perfect" father-daughter relationship, and in my young adult years, I found fault with him.  There was never a real friendship, he wasn't the adviser from whom I sought counsel, he rarely shared my confidences...we never allowed each other in to our private worlds.  He didn't know how to express his; I wasn't willing to share mine. 

It was loss for both of us. 

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye

There's a certain beauty in all this, though, learned at great cost to him and to me.  A lasting impression--adult interrupted?--that will, once again, shape who I will become, especially as a parent myself.

So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
It's the bitterness that lasts

The role I assumed in my family was one of peace keeper.  We weren't a particularly quarrelsome family, but whenever conflict of any sort arose, I'd try to mediate the situation and smooth things over.  This naturally bled into every area of my life.  I think peace keepers are necessarily people pleasers--conflict avoidance and the desire to please others make ready bedfellows. 

For most of my life I viewed my peace-keeping, people-pleasing inclinations as virtue.  Then God, in the sometimes subtle, sometimes sledgehammer ways His Spirit can work in your heart through His Word or through study or through circumstance (and in my case all three simultaneously), revealed to me how these were idols of mine. 

Ouch.

In our well-intentioned-but-flawed state, we can make an idol out of anything when it becomes the thing we "worship", even good things--work, volunteerism, children, marriage, busyness, and in my case nice.  The god of Nice.  I was much more concerned about "you" liking me (whether it be family or friend or co-worker) than I was about pleasing God.  That meant conflict, real issues between people, weren't dealt with; instead, they were conveniently swept under the rug and forgotten.  The problem with that is the dusty point of contention was still there.  

So we open up a quarrel
So don't yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different day
And if you don't give up, and don't give in
You may just be OK.

I was working through the Beth Moore study "Living Beyond Yourself" when God smacked me with this revelation...the difference between being a peace keeper (not so healthy) and a peace maker (very healthy).  Moore suggested (and keep in mind I studied this several years ago and my memory and notes are imperfect!) keepers try to maintain peace at any cost, but there's no completed action, no resolution of the conflict; in essence they're keeping something (a false peace) that doesn't really exist (because there's no resolution).  Peace MAKERS on the other hand, deal with the issue, work through to resolution. 

For me, these ideas were revolutionary.  I began to see in retrospect how my peace-keeping role in family had perhaps, ironically, created a chasm in my relationship with my father, not bridged a gap.  There were a lot of little somethings in between us, preventing a closeness I longed for. 

I never dealt with those things.  There was never true peace made with Daddy.

You know why?  Because I wanted him to be the initiator of peace (but I'm sure he never even realized there was division); as my father, it was him who needed to pursue me, not me, as his child pursuing him.  I wanted him to be the grown up. 

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
 

It's important to note we loved each other, there was no doubt about that.  This isn't about loving--invisible threads that tie parent to child, where shared blood flows with forgiveness and long-suffering and affection. 

This is about knowing each other.  I never got to know him, I never really let him know me. 

Because I wanted to please him, because I would rather have kept peace with him than make him uncomfortable, I never tried to know him. 

As I began to understand these things about myself, about him, I began to extend to him a kind of generosity...I no longer found fault with him or blamed him for not trying to know me.  Truly, I'm inclined to believe a fair amount of this lies with his generation and his general guardedness in sharing his emotions; part of it lies with him wanting to protect me from things I "didn't need to know". 

And then, in a twisted turn of fate in God's sovereign mercy, Daddy's health began declining.  Dementia and early Alzheimer's began to surface, at first, excusable (don't we all forget where we put our keys or the name of someone we just met?), eventually impossible to ignore.

How could I possibly find the good in that?

I wasn't there that morning
When my Father passed away
I didn't get to tell him
All the things I had to say

Looking back, my father was sick for a long time--years--before diagnosis.  I use that word loosely because with Alzheimer's, and more specifically with him, Lewy Bodies, the early symptoms are subtle and excusable.   Interestingly, I'm convinced he knew better than anyone else that his mind was escaping his body in pieces, and he did his best to open lines of communication that had previously been closed.  We observed him trying to bring closure to business affairs, controlling the things he could with a sometimes frantic desperation to bring order and resolution.  Many of these things would have future impact on us (his children and his wife); I think he was attempting to simplify those effects.

As I read...re-read...and eventually read again the comments from the prior two "Living Years" posts, I was moved; my heart ached after hearing the incomplete stories you began to share.  When you've lived unresolved relationship, you hear with a clarity not accessible to the unacquainted.  Not only did I hear what was said, I heard those unspoken, sometimes broken thoughts you dared not utter. 

Speaking them can bring them to life...it gives them a strength you'd rather not allow.

After my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer 10 years ago, Daddy changed.  In his own way, he began reaching out to his children in a way he hadn't before.  He was scared--the thought of losing his first-born must have been horrifying! 

Sadly, I think I was somewhat hardened towards his overtures; throughout my college years I  wanted him to be interested, invested in my life.  Now that he was making more of an effort, I didn't respond in kind.  I certainly wasn't disrespectful or discourteous, but there was a learned detachment that was slow to dissolve.  Walls of self-preservation had been erected long ago, and to avoid putting myself in a position to be hurt or rejected by him, my life was easily filled with my husband, children, friends and activity. It's important to note that his rejection was more a sin of "omission" (things you should've done, but didn't) than "commission" (things you shouldn't have done, but did).

I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I'm sure I heard his echo
In my baby's new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years

One day about two years ago, overnight my father's health took a catastrophic turn for the worse.   He went from being able to function independently--driving, dressing himself, eating normally, etc.--to not being able to do a thing.  Although we'll never know for sure, we have reason to believe it was an adverse reaction to a drug he was given.  He was in the hospital over two months, near death on more than one occasion, but eventually came home with 24-hour care.  He was confined to bed for 14 months and during that time there were only hints of recognition.

Because we wanted to give his wife a much-needed break (and because around-the-clock care is not only expensive, it's unreliable), my siblings and I took turns traveling to their home to help care for him.  Without going into the horrific details of parent-child role reversal, it was a blistering living hell--for him and for us.   If you've lived it, you know what I mean.

This is the saddest truth:  I spent more time with Daddy his last year and a half of life than I have for the past 20 years combined...and the man was out of his mind.

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye

There is a beauty in this brokenness...slivers of redemption among shards of regret-- 

I looked at my father for the first time in a long, long time.  I looked at him, I watched him,  I saw things I hadn't seen before.  He was 75 but had amazing skin, very few wrinkles.  How could I have missed that?  Without remembering I was his daughter (which was the case more often than not), he told me I was the "prettiest thing he had ever seen", in his own way, still telling me I was a princess.  When he thought of something funny, the twinkle returned to his eye and his laughter transported me back to happier times in his life. 

Mostly, though, it was opportunity to just be with him, serve him, and learn what it meant to honor him when it wasn't particularly pleasant to do so.  I thought of all MY sins of omission where he was concerned and realized that in spite of both of our emotionally-protective walls and unmet expectations, we loved each other, and for us, that has to be enough.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I don't live with a lot of regret, but are there things I wish, in retrospect, I would have done differently?  Absolutely.

I would have pursued him, I would have endured uncomfortable conversations to forge an intimacy of knowing each other we never found.  Because intuitively I knew he didn't want to "go there" (and "go there" meant a thousand different things), I never pressed, I didn't ask...and he didn't offer.

It's not that I have it all figured out or have all the answers--I don't even know all the questions (wink)!  But...but...I KNOW there are a million daughters just.like.me.  Little girls living inside a woman's steel magnolia frame who simply want to know their fathers, to share life, and for HIM to be the one to initiate it.

And I write this to tell you...gently...it probably isn't going to happen that way (if it hasn't already). 

But it can happen, I believe that. 

It's gonna have to be you in the driver's seat.  And it's worth it, it will be worth it.  Of course there are damaged, abusive relationships between father and child--I can't begin to speak to that type of estrangement :(.  For those who are like me, though, I think there's a way to intimacy; it takes courage and determination and initiative.  It requires a sacrifice of your "rights", it demands forgiveness, it means loving in a way that doesn't necessarily come naturally.   Because I hold scripture in esteem and believe it to speak truth and to reveal the nature and character of God, it seems this is certainly a way to honor your father (parents).

For a few friends of mine IRL who've admitted some of what I'm sharing here--I practically beg them to take the first steps towards a deeper relationship with their parents.  Consider this a "beg" to my cyber friends....I wonder if someone had kicked me in the behind five years ago if I would have heard...and responded....

This is the last picture I took of my dad...it was taken with my cell phone a few weeks before his death; I knew it would be the last time I photographed him and it seemed important.

I can't think of a better way to end this post than with the closing words of "Living Years" and to share the music with those of you who are unfamiliar.  Enjoy~

Say it loud, say it clear
Say it loud
Don't give up
Don't give in
And don't know what you can do next

The secret drawer

How could I forget the treasures tucked away in the Secret Drawer of my antique chest?  Every time I command the drawer to open, I'm greeted with delight and surprise and remembrance.

Today my father spoke to me from beyond the grave.

The chest is closer to its 200th birthday than the century mark, and from my youngest childhood memories, it was a mustard yellow; when I was newly wed, it was painted blue; and when we made the wise decision to have it stripped and refinished, we discovered that its first coat was white.

It's a beautiful piece and I can't imagine why anyone would think it looks better painted.  Constructed with curly maple (according to family legend, I honestly don't know what the wood is), two of the four drawers are accented with intricate carvings surrounding their skeleton key holes.  

Make that two of the five drawers--the fifth is undetectable to the untrained or uninformed eye.

After an unplanned bout of Winter cleaning, I rounded up a few items that needed to be stored in a safe place.  The Secret Drawer comes to mind only when I need it; much like the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts.  

With treasures in one hand, I opened the drawer with the other. Immediately my eyes were drawn to an envelope wrinkled and yellowed with age, the handwriting instantly recognizable:  my father's.

A 13-cent stamp punctuated the upper right-hand corner; the post-marked date, June 20, 1977.  I was 14, the same age as my middle son.  Daddy would have been mid-40s, the age I am now.

Slowly, I sat down, and even more slowly, I unfolded the time-worn letter, written on what was once white legal pad paper.

It was dated 1/19/77 and at first I was confused; the postmark said June, not January, but as I read it, I realized it was just a mistake.  That made me smile.

This letter, written to me while I was at camp for a month, was upbeat and chatty, two words I would never have used to describe Daddy.  

He talked about losing at tennis (I had forgotten he played) and he thanked me for his Father's Day gift that year (TV trays).  He said it was almost too quiet "without all you monsters around" (another smile...he always called us monsters).  He was hopeful I was enjoying camp and making lots of new friends.  

He chatted about looking at station wagons but not finding the right one (we ended up with a Vista Cruiser right before school started back that summer).  He told me he cooked hamburgers that were "so bad [he] couldn't eat them".

And he told me he missed me...

"...probably more than I think."

And today, realizing just now that it's almost the two-year anniversary of his death, with unexpected tears clouding my vision...

I could tell him the very same thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

{p.s.  Stop what you're doing right now and write your parents or your kids or someone you love.  Don't email, don't type it, hand write it and mail it.  Now.  Someone will thank you in 30 years or so.}

Living Years, conclusion

(If you have time, this will probably make more sense if you read it in the order it was written.  Part One,  Part Two)

I wasn't there that morning
When my Father passed away
I didn't get to tell him
All the things I had to say

Looking back, my father was sick for a long time--years--before diagnosis.  I use that word loosely because with Alzheimer's, and more specifically with him, Lewy Bodies, the early symptoms are subtle and excusable.   Interestingly, I'm convinced he knew better than anyone else that his mind was escaping his body in pieces, and he did his best to open lines of communication that had previously been closed.  We observed him trying to bring closure to business affairs, controlling the things he could with a sometimes frantic desperation to bring order and resolution.  Many of these things would have future impact on us (his children and his wife); I think he was attempting to simplify those effects.

As I read...re-read...and eventually read again the comments from the prior two "Living Years" posts, I was moved; my heart ached after hearing the incomplete stories you began to share.  When you've lived unresolved relationship, you hear with a clarity not accessible to the unacquainted.  Not only did I hear what was said, I heard those unspoken, sometimes broken thoughts you dared not utter. 

Speaking them can bring them to life...it gives them a strength you'd rather not allow.

After my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer 10 years ago, Daddy changed.  In his own way, he began reaching out to his children in a way he hadn't before.  He was scared--the thought of losing his first-born must have been horrifying! 

Sadly, I think I was somewhat hardened towards his overtures; throughout my college years I  wanted him to be interested, invested in my life.  Now that he was making more of an effort, I didn't respond in kind.  I certainly wasn't disrespectful or discourteous, but there was a learned detachment that was slow to dissolve.  Walls of self-preservation had been erected long ago, and to avoid putting myself in a position to be hurt or rejected by him, my life was easily filled with my husband, children, friends and activity. It's important to note that his rejection was more a sin of "omission" (things you should've done, but didn't) than "comission" (things you shouldn't have done, but did).

I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I'm sure I heard his echo
In my baby's new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years

One day about two years ago, overnight my father's health took a catastrophic turn for the worse.   He went from being able to function independently--driving, dressing himself, eating normally, etc.--to not being able to do a thing.  Although we'll never know for sure, we have reason to believe it was an adverse reaction to a drug he was given.  He was in the hospital over two months, near death on more than one occasion, but eventually came home with 24-hour care.  He was confined to bed for 14 months and during that time there were only hints of recognition.

Because we wanted to give his wife a much-needed break (and because around-the-clock care is not only expensive, it's unreliable), my siblings and I took turns traveling to their home to help care for him.  Without going into the horrific details of parent-child role reversal, it was a blistering living hell--for him and for us.   If you've lived it, you know what I mean.

This is the saddest truth:  I spent more time with Daddy his last year and a half of life than I have for the past 20 years combined...and the man was out of his mind.

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye

There is a beauty in this brokenness...slivers of redemption among shards of regret-- 

I looked at my father for the first time in a long, long time.  I looked at him, I watched him,  I saw things I hadn't seen before.  He was 75 but had amazing skin, very few wrinkles.  How could I have missed that?  Without remembering I was his daughter (which was the case more often than not), he told me I was the "prettiest thing he had ever seen", in his own way, still telling me I was a princess.  When he thought of something funny, the twinkle returned to his eye and his laughter transported me back to happier times in his life. 

Mostly, though, it was opportunity to just be with him, serve him, and learn what it meant to honor him when it wasn't particularly pleasant to do so.  I thought of all MY sins of omission where he was concerned and realized that in spite of both of our emotionally-protective walls and unmet expectations, we loved each other, and for us, that has to be enough.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I don't live with a lot of regret, but are there things I wish, in retrospect, I would have done differently?  Absolutely.

I would have pursued him, I would have endured uncomfortable conversations to forge an intimacy of knowing each other we never found.  Because intuitively I knew he didn't want to "go there" (and "go there" meant a thousand different things), I never pressed, I didn't ask...and he didn't offer.

It's not that I have it all figured out or have all the answers--I don't even know all the questions (wink)!  But...but...I KNOW there are a million daughters just.like.me.  Little girls living inside a woman's steel magnolia frame who simply want to know their fathers, to share life, and for HIM to be the one to initiate it.

And I write this to tell you...gently...it probably isn't going to happen that way (if it hasn't already). 

But it can happen, I believe that. 

It's gonna have to be you in the driver's seat.  And it's worth it, it will be worth it.  Of course there are damaged, abusive relationships between father and child--I can't begin to speak to that type of estrangement :(.  For those who are like me, though, I think there's a way to intimacy; it takes courage and determination and initiative.  It requires a sacrifice of your "rights", it demands forgiveness, it means loving in a way that doesn't necessarily come naturally.   Because I hold scripture in esteem and believe it to speak truth and to reveal the nature and character of God, it seems this is certainly a way to honor your father (parents).

For a few friends of mine IRL who've admitted some of what I'm sharing here--I practically beg them to take the first steps towards a deeper relationship with their parents.  Consider this a "beg" to my cyber friends....I wonder if someone had kicked me in the behind five years ago if I would have heard...and responded....

This is the last picture I took of my dad...it was taken with my cell phone a few weeks before his death; I knew it would be the last time I photographed him and it seemed important.

Funny, the reason I began writing what has now become a three-part series was simply to post this picture after I read Jenny's request for pictures.  Somehow, I got off track...imagine that :/.

I can't think of a better way to end this post than with the closing words of "Living Years" and to share the music with those of you who are unfamiliar.  Enjoy~

Say it loud, say it clear
Say it loud
Don't give up
Don't give in
And don't know what you can do next

 

Living Years, continued

Living Years, part one

So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
It's the bitterness that lasts**

The role I assumed in my family was one of peace keeper.  We weren't a particularly quarrelsome family, but whenever conflict of any sort arose, I'd try to mediate the situation and smooth things over.  This naturally bled into every area of my life.  I think peace keepers are necessarily people pleasers--conflict avoidance and the desire to please others make ready bedfellows. 

For most of my life I viewed my peace-keeping, people-pleasing inclinations as virtue.  Then God, in the sometimes subtle, sometimes sledgehammer ways His Spirit can work in your heart through His Word or through study or through circumstance (and in my case all three simultaneously), revealed to me how these were idols of mine. 

Ouch.

In our well-intentioned-but-flawed state, we can make an idol out of anything when it becomes the thing we "worship", even good things--work, volunteerism, children, marriage, busyness, and in my case nice.  The god of Nice.  I was much more concerned about "you" liking me (whether it be family or friend or co-worker) than I was about pleasing God.  That meant conflict, real issues between people, weren't dealt with; instead, they were conveniently swept under the rug and forgotten.  The problem with that is the dusty point of contention was still there.   

So we open up a quarrel
So don't yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different day
And if you don't give up, and don't give in
You may just be OK.

I was working through the Beth Moore study "Living Beyond Yourself" when God smacked me with this revelation...the difference between being a peace keeper (not so healthy) and a peace maker (very healthy).  Moore suggested (and keep in mind I studied this several years ago and my memory and notes are imperfect!) keepers try to maintain peace at any cost, but there's no completed action, no resolution of the conflict; in essence they're keeping something (a false peace) that doesn't really exist (because there's no resolution).  Peace MAKERS on the other hand, deal with the issue, work through to resolution. 

For me, these ideas were revolutionary.  I began to see in retrospect how my peace-keeping role in family had perhaps, ironically, created a chasm in my relationship with my father, not bridged a gap.  There were a lot of little somethings in between us, preventing a closeness I longed for. 

I never dealt with those things.  There was never true peace made with Daddy.

You know why?  Because I wanted him to be the initiator of peace (but I'm sure he never even realized there was division); as my father, it was him who needed to pursue me, not me, as his child pursuing him.  I wanted him to be the grown up. 

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye

It's important to note we loved each other, there was no doubt about that.  This isn't about loving--invisible threads that tie parent to child, where shared blood flows with forgiveness and long-suffering and affection. 

This is about knowing each other.  I never got to know him, I never really let him know me. 

Because I wanted to please him, because I would rather have kept peace with him than make him uncomfortable, I never tried to know him. 

As I began to understand these things about myself, about him, I began to extend to him a kind of generosity...I no longer found fault with him or blamed him for not trying to know me.  Truly, I'm inclined to believe a fair amount of this lies with his generation and his general guardedness in sharing his emotions; part of it lies with him wanting to protect me from things I "didn't need to know". 

And then, in a twisted turn of fate in God's sovereign mercy, Daddy's health began declining.  Dementia and early Alzheimer's began to surface, at first, excusable (don't we all forget where we put our keys or the name of someone we just met?), eventually impossible to ignore.

How could I possibly find the good in that?

...this is getting long, so thoughts to be concluded next post....

** lyrics Mike and the Mechanics,"Living Years"

Additional related links

Living Years

Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door**

Fathers and daughters.

It is through a father's eyes a young girl first believes she is a princess, she is beautiful, and she is capable of anything her unbound mind can imagine. 

In her return gaze, without the words to express it, she sees him as warrior-provider, hero-protector, and first love.  Some would suggest it is in her father that a daughter will construct her first impressions of God.

What a powerful relationship...what opportunity...what potential danger.

I know that I'm a prisoner
To all my father held so dear
I know that I'm a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years

Because, understandably, parents want the "best" for their children, they teach and challenge and encourage them.  They provide opportunity through education, the arts, athletics, and in a best-case scenario, there's balance.

Along the way, these babies grow and mature, each day and month and year marking an increase in independence, sometimes quite noticeable--the emphatic exclamation of a three-year-old, "I.do.it.MYSELF!"--other times imperceptible--the subtlety of a 14-year-old wearing lip gloss, but no longer just to balm chapped lips.

Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I'm afraid that's all we've got

I had several moments of "childhood interrupted", events that would alter and determine, at least in part, who I would eventually become:  the divorce of my parents, which many sources would tell you is blighting to a child, but for me, strangely, wasn't a horrible thing (we continued to see my father every day and at least my parents' arguing was silenced); most likely that was over-shadowed by the truly devastating death of my mother when I was nine, and my paternal grandmother's death the following year (with whom we were very close).

These things facilitated an accelerated maturity for me and my siblings, and we learned to cope with adult fare at an early age.  I'm convinced that is a skill learned early in life which has served me well, and although certainly I would rather my mother have lived, I'm thankful for this tiny piece of seen redemption from such a great loss. 

When I celebrated my 39th birthday, I realized I had out-lived my mother. When each of my three children reached their third grade year in school, I was thankful, and to some degree, relieved, at its completion; not so much for my own life and health, but that they still had their mom.  It is not "normal" to not have a mom when you're a kid; to this day, I never presume any child I meet has both parents living...  residual wake with no apparent ending, I suppose.

You say you just don't see it
He says it's perfect sense
You just can't get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defense

The way I viewed my father changed often throughout my life; I think he was more consistent in how he saw me.  He always thought I was smart and beautiful and could accomplish just about anything I set my mind to; he was always proud of me and he found ways to express his love, sometimes verbally, more often not.

That being said, it was far from a "perfect" father-daughter relationship, and in my young adult years, I found fault with him.  There was never a real friendship, he wasn't the adviser from whom I sought counsel, he rarely shared my confidences...we never allowed each other in to our private worlds.  He didn't know how to express his; I wasn't willing to share mine. 

It was loss for both of us. 

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye

There's a certain beauty in all this, though, learned at great cost to him and to me.  A lasting impression--adult interrupted?--that will, once again, shape who I will become, especially as a parent myself.

...thoughts to be continued....

** lyrics Mike and the Mechanics, "In the Living Years"

Living Years, continued
Living Years, conclusion

These boots aren't made for walkin'...anymore

It arrived unexpectedly in a non-descript, bigger-than-a-breadbox cardboard container, impossible to predict what was inside.  When the UPS man left it at my back door, for half a second I thought maybe Mark had lost his mind decided to give up his old MAC as my "prize” in his Diorama contest, possibly because he is not a starving student after all but a wealthy oil baron turned blogging addict bought a new one when he was at the Apple store in New York.   That was short-lived, however, when I saw the return address:  it was from my dad’s wife, Anne. 

Over the past year or so, it hasn’t been uncommon to receive mail from Anne; the majority has dealt with my father's business affairs and she wanted to keep me and my siblings in the “loop”.  I thought it was really sweet…thoughtful…when she sent a sympathy card to me (I think all of us) following Daddy’s death.  I didn’t think to do the same for her. Anne was never considered our stepmother— they married when I was 28.  We are not close, but I’m grateful for how she took care of Daddy, especially during the last 14 months of his life.  She was the type advocate you could only wish for if you were not in a position to speak for yourself.

Over the course of their 15-year marriage, she and Daddy have given us some   (a h e m) rather unusual gifts…they enjoyed shopping at flea markets and it was always an “adventure” to see what they could come up with next.  “Adventure” isn’t always a good thing…sometimes it just left us scratching our heads, or searching for the words to express our gratitude for being remembered (while secretly wondering what in the WORLD we were gonna do with a wooden-beaded car seat cover).  Suffice it to say that, although a THOUGHTFUL gift giver, her/their choices weren’t always something I’d choose myself. 

And then this box arrived, containing one of the most amazing gifts I think I will ever receive.  Buried within a seemingly multiplying sea of white Styrofoam peanuts,  I reached into the unknown and extracted a treasure!  Beauty in the eye of the beholder, this is a gift whose significance would mean little to most, but everything to me.

It was one of my father's old cowboy boots, transformed into a decorative bird feeder.  It sounds odd as I type these words that this gift could mean so much, but it does.  These boots personify Daddy…somehow, in them, his memory lives. 

As a little girl, I thought his boots were mysterious and held secrets of his adventuresome past.  I can remember standing on top of his feet and “walking” with him, clutching around his waist so I wouldn’t fall off. With the passing of just a few years, things changed.  From my tween years into college, I HATED those boots.  They embarrassed me.   I don’t know for sure, but western wear was likely in and out of style half a dozen times during those years, but it never mattered.  To me, he was as unfashionable as you could get…I worried too much about what other people thought, a habit, I’m afraid, that took decades to break. 

Although, part of his childhood was spent on a farm, I don’t think that’s where his cowboy boot affection began.  I vaguely remember him telling me about seeing a pair in New York City of all places, in a shop window, and liking the look of them.  Plus, he liked the added height it gave him (barefoot, he was around 5’ 10”).   Once he hit his 70s, though, he gave up his boots for tennis shoes.  He finally discovered they were actually more comfortable.

Anne gave me this gift, not because I have a birthday coming up, but to thank me for speaking at Daddy’s funeral.  I tried to verbalize to her how grateful I was to receive it, but this is one of those times words failed to capture my delight, my gratitude, my heart.  I hope she could hear those things "between the lines", perhaps my enthusiasm spoke what simple words could not.

Before speaking at Daddy’s funeral, I penned my thoughts to make sure I remained focused and steady.  I wanted it to be a time to HONOR him, not for me to become unglued because of raw emotion.  I “read” through my notes three times aloud before his service—once with my aunt, once with my sister and once at the chapel before anyone arrived.  EVERY time, I lost it at some point. 

Until it mattered. 

During his service, my spirit was calm and I was certain it was a result of many friends praying for me.  It was a moment divine, a moment of beauty.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As I continue...I realize, this one’s for me…I’m writing this post for me.  It's way too long and not something I expect anyone would wade through... Because I have an awful memory, sometimes the mere act of writing gives me cause to remember.  With the receipt of this gift, I couldn't help but reminisce.  Following are some of the words I penned for Daddy’s service. One of my hopes at the time was for others "to have a glimpse of him that maybe [they] had never seen before. I hope if [they were] “meeting” him for the first time today through our words, [they would have] wished [they] had known him in life.”

I’m not including everything (I couldn’t if I tried because I spoke this, I didn’t read it verbatim), just some of the thoughts that for me, bring Daddy to life.  As I re-read this today, it was surreal…I remember writing so little of it…so I’m GLAD I saved it! :)

"I never knew a visitation could be so wonderful. It wasn’t sad, it was a celebration, and we all loved hearing your thoughts about and condolences for Daddy. We’re glad you got to see pictures from his childhood, and learn about his years in New York and California, when he was chasing his dreams of stardom. I mean, how cool is that to have a father who starred in movies with Paul Newman and Henry Fonda, played poker with Steve McQueen and Walter Matthau and lived with loveboat captain Gavin MacLeod?"


(This was followed with some personal thoughts to my siblings, Anne, and a few others.)

"And now.....Daddy. What in the world do I say about Daddy? He was complex and unconventional. He played by his own rules and expected you to do the same. He was never a chameleon, he never just blended in. He was opinionated. He was not a planner, but I think he was a dreamer. The two things I wanted to touch on today are his role as teacher and his legacy.

Sometimes his lessons were intentional, sometimes they weren’t. I can remember how he taught us to swim. He’d coax us onto the diving board and tell us to jump in, promising to catch us. We’d jump and he’d tread water backwards, just out of arm’s reach and challenging us to keep moving. I can remember being mad that he wouldn’t just catch me; every time I jumped, I thought “this time” he really would. But he never did and that was infuriating! The thing is, I never drowned…he always knew the exact time to reach out and pull me to his side, and in this process, I learned to be a strong swimmer.

When mama died he taught us to be strong. He allowed us to grieve, but when enough time had passed, he refused to let us drown in our sorrow. Somehow he cultivated the right tension between remembering and loving Mama, with the reality of moving on and living in a way that looked forward, not to the past.

The wildest lesson I think, is that over the past 14 months, in spite of his diminished capacity, Daddy, through his circumstances, continued to be our teacher. Alzheimers is often referred to as “The Long Goodbye”, and we have been grieving for over a year. It didn’t just begin Monday night. [My siblings] and I, together with Anne, have had to find a way to work together when not only were there no “good” answers, there seemed to be no answers at all. We’ve had to learn how to navigate the stresses of arranging 24-hour care in the home, physically help ourselves when we were able to, and forgive each other when one of us failed to meet the others’ expectations. We’ve had to learn how to give to and honor our father in ways we’ve never imagined. We’ve had opportunity to talk to him for hours on end and tell him all the things held close to our heart that maybe would have been left unsaid apart from his captive state.


And I look at his legacy, the things that matter that he left behind. A wife who loved him not just in word but in action. She was his greatest advocate and spoke strongly on his behalf when otherwise he would have had no voice. And I look at his four children. All four of us have a faith that has carried us through his decline.  As we’ve struggled through issues of life and death and sought the counsel and wisdom of man, each of us have come to the end of ourselves and found our answer in [God]. As we’ve prayed and searched scripture and had hundreds of others interceding on Daddy’s behalf, we have found our hope in God alone...who loves, forgives, blesses, redeems, who extends mercy and grace and wisdom, and who has made provision for eternity that lessons the sting of our temporal loss.

My childhood best friend Kimberly encouraged me to look for moments of beauty during this time. Each of us have found them, perhaps nothing more beautiful than when Daddy,...for as long as he could, continued to tell us he loved us and knew to kiss us when we kissed him goodbye.

So, today, while we are sad for our loss, we are thankful his body has been released from the prison he’s endured for the last year. This is a mercy for him. We won’t dwell on the months Daddy suffered with dementia; these are the things we’ll remember instead--

 

His black pointed toe cowboy boots, worn for so many years they came in and out of style half a dozen times….how we'd beg for "whisker rubs" from his stiff, five o'clock shadow and cheek-to-cheek we'd regret ever asking, but for some reason we’d ask him to do it again the next night…his laugh and his voice. He sang beautifully, and in my mind's ear I can still hear…impromptu occasions when he played the piano and I thought it was magic…it was Daddy who taught me to smash my scrambled eggs through the tines of a fork, and that bacon crumbled into grits made all the difference in the world, and I think of him every time I see my children doing the same thing...because they've grown up seeing me do it that way, because I grew up watching him. I want to remember his lectures on "not everyone will like you" because he knew I was a pleaser, and that my heart would easily bruise, and it was his way of toughening me up. I’m thankful for the commitment he kept to Mama following her death, giving up Sunday golf to take us to church. I want to remember his terrible haircut and lack of fashion sense. The way he wore short sleeved polos in the coldest of winter, and always, always had a Bic four-color pen in his pocket because that was a necessary tool in completing a crossword puzzle. I want to remember the way he HAD to have his ice cubes rinsed so they wouldn't stick together before pouring a Coke…that as he got older he began to overprotect the way a young father does his toddler, worrying about me driving in the rain, or picking up our mail from the mailbox while the car was in drive not park, and that pointed tip knives are much more dangerous than round tip ones. I can see you bouncing on one foot to drain water from your ear after swimming. I think it was him who who cultivated my love for the beach, he took us every summer I can remember. It's Daddy whose DNA I'm certain I share when I refuse to make plans in advance, and it’s totally genetic that I’m a “messy” and not a neat freak...he loved Big Red chewing gum, Hershey's miniatures, peanut butter Ritz Crackers and pistachios …and every night when we were little, he kissed us goodnight and said our prayers.

And so, I remember....

At a loss...

Last night I was almost finished with the post explaining Rachel's mysterious mass about the same time the Florida Gators were schooling Ohio State in the subtleties of playing football, when I got the call.

The "call".

THE call.

The call I had been anticipating for over a year, the call I prayed would come sooner rather than later, the call I dreaded.  The call that has made caller ID both my friend and my enemy...my frenemy. 

My father died.

God that's weird to write.

I loathe euphemisms for death, it is what it is no matter how you dress it up or attempt to say it nicely. 

I've been awake for over an hour now, my sinuses are exploding so I got up to take something... I decided to let y'all know because some of you have asked....some of you have been reading me long enough to know this was coming.  For those of you who have "spoken" when you didn't know quite what to say, thanks for your words...they encouraged.

My heart grieves, yet I am thankful to have found solace in the arms of my husband, who knew when to both hold ME and hold his tongue, not trying to "say" anything to make me feel better.  And when he did speak, he knew to make me laugh--when I said, "I've got to get a tissue" he responded with something like "That's a good idea, you're snotting in my ear."

I'm thankful there was a last, lovely moment of beauty that my sister shared with Daddy...she deserved...she needed it the most.  As she prayed for him, his eyes brightened, opened wide (his first alert move in days) and then....he closed them, and that was it....

I'm thankful to have spent the day with him Saturday, and "knew" it was time for me to write his obituary, something my family asked me to do a year ago, when we were told then his death would occur in months.  I knew after I wrote it Sunday...I just knew.

I'm thankful for a God who understands the pain of watching someone you love suffer, who has a provision for eternity which helps me to keep this temporal sting in perspective. 

So, this is all for now.  Thanks for your kind thoughts and prayers...I know they will buoy me in the days to come.

Here are a few posts/links where I've written about Daddy before, in case we've just "met" and you have no idea what I'm talking about....