It’s Christmas time and I stand at the kitchen counter of my parent’s new home and look out across the family room and through the French doors of the office as the old man carefully and gently lowers himself into his chair, equipped with a pillow for either his head or back, a blanket, and an oscillating heater blowing 80 degree air into an already warm room. I am consumed with sadness and I think, “That is not my father.”
My father is not a 68-year old man who looks like he’s in his eighties. My father is not six feet tall with skin and what little muscle he has left hanging from his bones. My father is not so skinny that you can see his combination pacemaker/defibrillator protruding from his chest. My father is not so cold all the time that he has to wear jeans, a long sleeve t-shirt, and a sweatshirt in the sun, in Florida, in November. My father’s face is not gaunt and his voice does not sound like an old man. My father does not look chronically fatigued. My father is not so thin that when I hug him I’m worried I’ll hurt him. My father does not forget things. My father is not so frail that after spending five hours running errands, in which he mostly stays in the car, he has hardly any energy for two days. My father’s movements throughout his home are not labored. My father does not need handicapped features in his home like a bar in the bathroom so he can lower himself down and lift himself off of the toilet or a walk-in shower/tub combo. My father is not dying.
MY father is in his mid-thirties. It is about 1978 and he is six feet tall and weighs 250 pounds, and he is lightening fast. He has very strong legs and beautiful calves and they propel him around the bases of the softball field as he sprints from home plate to first and then to second. He has a curly thick head of hair and a smile and a laugh that will command your attention and light up any room into which he walks. My father is so warm all the time that it isn’t unusual for him to drive in the winter with the air conditioning on and the window cracked a jar. My father wins the “EF Hutton” award at work because when he talks, people listen. My father has two young daughters and he coaches their softball teams while smoking cigars. My father wears work boots, khaki pants with paint all over them, and a Michigan State University t-shirt that is close to 10 years old, also covered with paint, and he takes my sister and me on Saturday morning errands to the hardware store and bank, and he wants to hold our hands. My father is a businessman and he works very hard during the week at work to provide for his family. My father is a family man and works diligently on the weekends to accomplish the tasks on his “Honey Do” list. My father is very far from dying.
I stand there in the kitchen and fight back the tears, but it is a battle I will loose. Because the truth is, my father is dying.
My father is dying and I am angry about it—and he is the target of my rage. I blame him for dying. I am holding him accountable for the sins of his past.
And yet, I know this is neither right nor fair. How am I going to resolve these feelings so that when he does die, I am at peace with him, with me, and with the two of us?
Everyone with whom I have spoken about this has said the same thing—I have to forgive him. Forgive him for everything. But that doesn’t seem fair, and I struggle with the notion that he gets the slate wiped clean just because he is dying. And I struggle with the notion of how horrible this sounds as I think it.
At the end of Christmas dinner, my father said he would like it if we would say grace just once over the holidays; but, he says, “I don’t think I could get out three words before crying.” And as the last few words are coming out of his mouth, he starts to cry. Three seconds later, I am crying. Shortly after that, my sister is crying. I don’t remember exactly what we all said that evening, but I will always be grateful for the insight into my father I gained and the resulting compassion and forgiveness that just seemed to come over me and start to wash away the past.
I learned that night that my father’s identify is very much defined by his role as the provider in the family. And why shouldn’t it be? He has filled that role magnificently. No one in our family has ever wanted for anything. I grew up in a family where there was always a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food on the table (not to mention a debt-free college education and a beautiful wedding). I grew up in a family where I was told on a daily basis by at least one of my parents, if not both, that I was loved. I grew up in a family where I was allowed to express my opinions, even if they differed with my parents. I grew up in a family where I was taught that prejudice was wrong and being kind and generous to those in need was right. I grew up in a family where I was on the receiving end of such good advice from my father such as, “Don’t take any wooden nickels,” “Life isn’t fair. Fare is something you pay to ride in a taxi,” and “A guy will tell you anything you want to hear to get in your pants.”
Was there really that much for me to forgive? In the overall scheme of my father’s love and grace toward me, his sins of the past don’t seem so sinful. And have I lived such a pure life? No. Have I been the best daughter I could be at times? No. Do I want to be judged at the end of my days for things that happened in my past? No. Will I just want to be loved at that point? Yes, I think I will. So how can I not forgive my father? I can not not forgive him. And so I do. And I find this gift of forgiveness is also a gift for me. It allows me to heal. It allows me to move on. It allows me to love. It is the best Christmas gift ever.
The next day I watched CBS Sunday Morning with my dad. He was propped up in his chair with his pillow, blanket, and space heater and I was curled up in the seat next to him. Frequent conservative Republican guest commentator Ben Stein’s segment came on and although I generally change the channel because I don’t share his outlook on life, I wasn’t at my own home, and quite honestly, I’m glad I didn’t. For today, Ben Stein, perhaps best known for his role as Ferris Bueller’s science teacher in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, delivered a Christmas message that could not have come at a better time nor been anymore meaningful or personal.
“Why don’t we all clear out our homes inside our hearts and our heads of things that are really heavy and take up a lot of space-resentments and grudges, and anger. Why don’t we throw away our bad feelings at anyone we feel angry about because he or she slighted us or belittled us? Why don’t we toss away our remembered hurts and aches about people who didn’t treat us right? They’re just people after all. And they’re made up of all the things that make people maddening, just like you and I are……You’ll be amazed at how much sunnier and roomier it is in your head and your heart if you just get rid of everything that is blocking the light. Then comes the best part. As a gift to everyone in your life, give the gift of forgiveness. It is a great gift. I like doing it, and it’s really a gift for me. I’m even going to forgive my self for my usual sins. Just try it. Throw out your old resentments and give the gift of forgiveness for everyone, even yourself.”
Thank you Ben Stein. Merry Christmas to my dad, and Merry Christmas to me, compliments of a Jewish, conservative Republican. Who knew?
No comments:
Post a Comment