Dad,
Over the last few weeks, I thought a lot about today, the first anniversary of your passing.
I woke up from a dream shortly before 4 am today, and couldn't go back to sleep.
In my dream, I heard your voice in a voicemail message, but I can't remember now what it was you were saying. It was random, as dreams are, nothing coherent or of consequence. But still, it was nice to hear your voice at such a time, and the dream prompted me to look up your blog and listen to one of your sermons this morning. I found one from about five years ago, and it's really nice to hear you.
I didn't really have the opportunity to be alone with you at your funeral, but I did have the chance to tell you, silently, with people all around, how sorry I am that I hurt you.
In fact, that's when I finally broke down.
It's not just imaginary or sympathetic; I know firsthand how I made you feel when I left the fold, and I know there was nothing anyone could have done to make it better or easier. I know what I did was unthinkable, too taboo for discussion, and that all we could do for the last decade of your life was step around the broken glass and pretend the wound wasn't there.
I know those were just the realities, and you couldn't change them any more than I could.
I wish that could have been different.
I longed to share my spiritual journey with you, and would have loved to spend hours, years, comparing our lives and perspectives, sharing where the Spirit was leading each of us and why our paths were so different, yet so much the same.
This right here is why the resurrection means so much to me.
It's no longer just about "seeing" my loved ones who have gone before. Now, it's about having the conversations you and I were never able to have.
Part of me is confident we never could have been real with each other, no matter how long each of us had lived in this life. But then, part of me wonders if maybe it could have happened, if maybe it was in there somewhere, and you just couldn't open that door for some reason.
I don't know.
But I know this: If the resurrection is real, and I believe it is, when I see you again, all that inhibition and barrier will be gone, and we will finally be able to be real with each other. (That is, unless you're right, and I'm lost, and we won't see each other again at all, but my chips are all in that you're wrong about that.)
I promise you this: Being real with me will be worth it, and we will both wish we had put our shields down long ago. And I think being real with you will be worth it for me, too.
As I remember Samuel's text that day, telling me you were gone, it's ironic to me that I'm currently holed up in a room, isolating from my family because I have the same virus that took you away. Only, for me, instead of shredding my lungs and leaving me without hope of survival, it's just been like having a cold.
My experience with this plague has been totally different from yours, mainly because I had the protection of a vaccine that was still a few months away when you got sick. I imagine it would have saved your life if it had come in time, and this makes me sad.
And I wonder if my experience with life, especially with spiritual things, is different from yours because of protections I have had that perhaps you didn't have. And how ironic that you were one of the main providers of those protections and benefits that shielded me and then equipped me to go in a new direction, even a direction you couldn't contemplate.
There's a great lyric in a song that goes, "I know I took the path that you would never want for me..." and I have always thought of you when I heard that song. And even as I continue on this path that you were certain was folly, going even further than you feared, I know I owe you a debt I can never repay:
Thank you for your love for the Word of God. I know you think I turned my back on it, but I promise you I didn't. Your esteem for the Word was imprinted upon me at the earliest age, and it will never cease to be a part of my DNA. I wonder how different this was for you. Your love for the Word was something you learned from others outside your childhood home and came to through your own devotion. I don't mean "works" in that way, lest anyone should boast, but this is something you worked for, not something you inherited, as it was for me. It's something you built, and then I grew up in, and growing up in something will always be different from building it.
Thank you for you and Mom's marriage. Life was good in our home. There was never a day when I didn't know where I was going, and where I was coming home to. There was never an awkward moment at school when I wasn't comforted by the knowledge that I would soon be home again where I belonged and where everything would be fine. There was never a meal missed, never an occasion uncelebrated, often a cause for laughter, always a routine that was life-giving, always hope that the future was bright. No, every moment was not pleasant. Your temper and brooding were difficult, often scary. I often assured myself I would not be that way when I grew up, even as I copied most of those behaviors. A lot was never said that needed to be said, for fear of you, and it has taken most of my adult life to unlearn the inhibition that was often needed to stay out of your way. But as hard as that was, it was mold in a house that kept us safe and warm, and that's not the same thing as losing it all in a fire, or never having a safe home at all. We were never without recourse or hope, and I confess I have little idea what all it took for you and Mom to provide this for us. I am grateful.
Thank you for our church life. No, I didn't stay there, I know. But a church family is a necessity in my life because of you and Mom, and again, this mindset is something you built and I grew up with. So many people made loving imprints on my life through church, and I am grateful.
Thank you for cheering on your favorite childhood teams when I was a kid, and making room for me in your bleacher seats. I know this was not nearly as important to you later in life, but it still was when I was young, and I am so glad it was. My childhood trips to Dodger Stadium are right up there with Disneyland in my mind, and I am so grateful. You got to see both the Dodgers and the Lakers win another championship before you got sick, and you even got a Cameo video from Dave Roberts! :-) You were never as into the Rams coming back to LA as I was, and that was sad to me, but it's OK. After you were gone, I got myself a USC shirt for the college football season, and I plan to keep an eye on them for you for years to come. I know sports don't really matter, but like the guy in City Slickers said about talking baseball with his Dad, "that was real", and I am grateful.
Thank you for taking us up to Big Bear, up to Sequoia, out to Arizona, up to Oregon. Man, for people on a limited budget, somehow we traveled! I wish I could have taken you to NYC and shown you how to ride the subway. You and Mom made it real to go see unfamiliar places, and I am grateful.
Thank you for something I overheard you say to Mom: 1983, all five of us walking out to the driveway, getting into the car to go see Return of the Jedi. You turned to Mom and said, "Don't worry, we'll take it out of the savings." I wasn't supposed to hear that, and I only understood it years later. You didn't really have the money for this outing, but we were going anyway, because you knew how important it was to us. My friends and I had been sharing rumors for months about the movie, and how we had heard that Darth Vader's helmet was going to come off. (How did rumors like that spread before the internet?) I have never forgotten how you somehow made this important moment happen for us when it wasn't easy to do, and I am grateful.
Dad, I wish the cultural winds of the last 30+ years had not pushed us so far off into the political ocean. For a very long time, I was right there with you, adjusting the sails of our ships for maximum wind. And I know you were proud. And I know you didn't think our politics and our faith got too intertwined or became indistinguishable.
But...I became convinced they did. I became convinced of a lot of things.
As I caught a different wind and changed course, I'm sure it broke your heart as much as it did mine that our courses kept growing further and further apart. Some parents and kids find each other again in later life, in their 60's and 40's, after having grown apart earlier. We were the opposite, it seemed. The times of the world post-2010 just seemed to become more polarized than ever, and by then, we weren't seeing the world much the same way at all, and weren't talking about these things at all, either. There wasn't much "common ground"-finding going on, and finding common ground that didn't readily present itself was never one of our strengths.
I'm sorry we couldn't resolve this while you were here. If we had tried, I don't know that it would have been possible. But I do wish we could have tried.
Since you've been gone, I have found myself dwelling more on a younger version of you, a version I was just old enough back then to remember now. A version of you that still had most of life ahead, that was convinced ministry was the way, and was determined to pursue it, even though that meant leaving behind a military life in which you thrived.
I treasure this young man's smile and laugh, his Gospel preaching that was simple and unencumbered with partisanship, his Snoopy tie pin, his left-handed softball swing, his mustache, his handwriting, his '78 Chevette, his hair part that he imparted to me, with neither of us ever imagining I would go bald.
Dad, I know I don't know what all went into making you the person you were, especially the things that were difficult, but I have thought about you every single day for the past year, and in all of it, what turns up the most is that I am grateful.
If you have awareness of me now, and when you have awareness of me again later, I pray our wound will be healed. Not gone as if it never happened, but your heart left stronger for having been broken by a son, and then healed again by a Father.
May God's rest continue to be upon you, dear one.
