Coming to Fullness In The Love Of A Father

                                                      Photo by Jude Beck on Unsplash 

I have father wounds. Welcome to the human race, right? Of God calling Himself father Donald Miller says, “This, in light of the earthly representation of the role, seems a marketing mistake.” So went my childhood. Words spoken in haste. Doors kicked in rage. Hugs never given. Most of all the being away. My father’s issues were birthed in the present but conceived in the past. God is a loving father. To learn this has taken so long because unlearning is a huge part of the process.

Dads’ parents modeled dysfunction. Dad bought it but never owned it. So it was passed down again. The cycle continues or is broken. Faltering, falling flat; I’m a prodigal healed in the hug of the Everlasting father. 

Some of us wrestle to resist the hard wiring we come by. Can we flee pedigree? We want to be like our dad, or we don’t. In a sudden moment we realize it; we’ve responded like dad. This is both blessing and curse. For there are good dads and bad dads and a bunch of in-between. 

Did we get dad’s approval? Our father and the image of our father dictate who we become and who we fight against becoming. A father tells a son he is lazy; he grows up a workaholic. We can spend an entire life trying to please our father; even after he’s buried. The story of the prodigal resonates for a reason. Not because of the return of the son but because of the embrace of the father.

I go whoring and sew seed, running farther and farther from the father. Finding only hunger I come home. Expecting condemnation. Father has prepared a feast; killing the fatted calf. He absorbs the loss I squander. He delights in me; wrapping me up in His hug.  My Father is a safe place; I am sheltered, shielded, secure.

I can come to fullness in the acceptance of a loving (and perfect) father. I am not cowering. He is positively provoking me to be my best. This kind of fatherly love encourages a radical freedom. Even in light of personal failure. This is what I am learning. I hesitate to buy into my image of an earthly father. Conversely the heavenly image of father has me hungering for more of his image in me.

Road Tripping Baja

The Mexican Federal Highway 1, was completed in 1973. Google maps claims that’s twenty-one hours of driving to La Paz (click on the ‘family road trip’ icon and that time doubles). Their marriage tenuous, my parents seized on the idea of going south through Baja. I was thirteen, my sister eleven. Was this road trip borne out of an article in Westways magazine? An aching hope that peninsular beaches would wash away present pain? For the kids? Adventure called; Baja beckoned.

A seed of the wild was at work in my folks. Evident in each parent when separately seen. Mom took us to the mountains. Dad played with photography. Somewhere in them, between them, this connection. A seed stifled.

An album in a box contains black and white photos from that trip. Taken with my Brownie camera; mom, dad, sis, a statue celebrating the 28^th Parallel. I have few memories of that trip. Fighting to stay awake---the rocking of the car lulling me to sleep. Watching the scenery in-between fights with my sister. Many bathroom stops—mom was taking a diuretic. Pemex gasoline—that’s funny when you’re thirteen. Roadside shrines, and ribs at Senor Frogs. I can’t say what the trip stirred in my parents. Still a portal opened, a seed planted. 

Is this hankering for road trips my nature? The same DNA driving my parents to drive? That same DNA motivating my grandfather to flee Russia—the most grandiose of road trips. Or was I nurtured by highway? Solid and safe the car takes care of all my needs.  Transporting me to a place where hope is just in the distance. A seed takes hold.

I've seen countless backroads since then. Cresting hills and plummets into washes. Hours in the cab with close friends. Honeymoon with the wife. Weeks in the summer with the daughter checking out ‘America’s best ideas.’ Every October and Summer seeking adventure. Other people’s stories. Vistas and visions of beauty around every turn. Hope just beyond the horizon. A seed blooms. 

Morning Ritual

On working days and vacation days—one morning ritual. The face gets washed; hot water or cold water; soak the hair, brush it out. Small life-affirming ritual I’ve been engaging in for longer than I’ve been drinking coffee. More consistent than brushing my teeth.

Twenty bucks would buy me a new one! It’s a dark black, solid plastic piece that my dad probably bought from a local drug store. Or the Fuller brush man. I haven’t been parted from it—so to speak. Constant for forty-two years. It wasn’t mine. It was dad’s and it worked pretty good for what I needed. My sixteen years-old long hair needed training and dad’s brush was perfect. When he left the house, he left it behind. Must not have been important. Now I think maybe he knew? How do we lock onto these little things?  

In high school and college I carried a comb in my pocket. Always the brush in the morning. Combs disappeared but the brush traveled with me.  My mom’s pink bathroom to a summer in Chicago; the upstairs bathroom in a house full of guys to the strained and cluttered baths of my first marriage. High desert years alone with my daughter to beach side songs with my beloved. The brush has been along for all of it. In suitcases and toiletry bags; on hotel counters to permanent bathroom drawers. Recently I bought another brush for travel—so nothing happens to the good one.

Why this brush?  Does it feel perfect in hand and on hair (weight, smooth plastic, firm bristles that penetrate to scalp) because it is; or because I’ve used it so long. Is it that ‘one thing’ of my dad’s that I own? I don’t know all the answers.

I do know this. Tomorrow morning the sun will rise.  I’ll get out of bed. Pour a cup of coffee. The face will get washed. I’ll put my head under running water. Then I’ll brush it out with the ideal hair brush. Life goes on.

Burgers, Chili-Sizes and Dining With Dad

Thinking about hamburgers.  Thinking about foods I enjoy.  Thinking about being introduced to those foods.  Thinking about my dad.  I remember going with dad to Tommy’s.  I didn’t like it then.  Kids like plain food. Though simple; Tommy’s is far from plain.  The basic burger with fresh tomato and lettuce and the famous chili in the burger.  Simple but so good.  There was a family outing to El Tepeyac—pork aplenty, fresh salsa, beans and house-made chips. (1, 728 reviews on Yelp.  4 stars).  Too hot, too spicy.  Today I could happily live on El Tepeyac and Tommy’s.  There is one strong link between burgers, chili and comfort that links childhood comfort and contemporary delight.

 

The chili-size at Bob’s Big Boy.   Dad missed segments, seasons and years of my life there was a season we frequented Bob’s Big Boy.   Always the Chili-size and a brownie for me.  I don’t remember what dad got.  I remember that we talked.  I still enjoy a good chili-size and I wonder if in part it’s because my senses recall the delight of those first experiences.

My memories disappear faster than snapchat photos so it’s tough to remember first experiences.  The first taste of a Butterfinger; first bowl of Capn’ Crunch, first Halvah, Gyro, Baklava…the list goes on and on.  Yet I remember when I fell in love with onion and bell-peppers atop a pizza.  I was alone for a week in Manhattan.  Walking the city, hungry, I stepped into a little café and bought a slice of pizza.  So simply straightforward but so richly delightful. 

Thinking about burgers I want to chart my favorite foods.  A food time-line of sorts.  So much I don’t remember.  Once in a while though a tasty treat will make connection with those neurons linking sense and memory.  If I linger there long enough; there it is---Baklava, yes, perhaps, the Greek Market.

Freud, My Dad and Scrambled Eggs

I lay back on the analyst’s couch.  The discussion resumes.  In a thick, German accent he revisits the question, “Why breakfast?”  I don’t think it's only me.  There’s something deep and archetypal about it.  Perhaps it's the eggs.  

Symbolic; I suppose.  Reaching back to childhood I equate quick breakfasts ---Frosted Flakes, Cap'n Crunch, cold cereals and hot cereals--with school days.  Summer days and weekends tantalized with morning cartoons and full breakfasts; eggs, bacon, fresh melon; peaches and bread-with spreads of butter, peanut butter, marmalade and jellies.  Years later I would add coffee to the list---the smell, the heat, the senses coming awake.

The doctor taps his pipe against the table and mutters, “Der pater.”  Father; yes.  In the early days before the screaming fights and the long absences dad would come into the kitchen to cook.  I remember scrambled eggs with other ingredients; sausages and salami; flavorful but different than mom ever made.  Bathrobe on; which was dressed-up for dad on a Saturday, he scrambled eggs. Mom percolated coffee and set out the table.  My sister and I sat at the table waiting to be served.

The analyst inhales; adjusts his pipe.  A clock ticks in the background.  “So---you were served,” he says--both statement and question.  So we were.  That may well be the crux of breakfast’s hold on me.  The good breakfasts I’ve had have all been served.  I’ve enjoyed them in repose; most often in community with others.  I’m being served.  I’m ordering what I want.  Extra bacon or absurd amounts of butter and syrup-even pure maple!.  All mine.  Id, ego and Sabbath rolled together like a crepe.  The alarm sounds.  Reflection ends. I go on my way--- thinking about breakfast and planning my next Sabbath rest.

Wind of Refreshing

The sweat tickles your nose and burns your eyes. You remove your hat to cool yourself off and the sweat flows down your face and your neck. All day in this wilderness and the heat is wearing you out. Placing the hat back in its place you find partial shade and a large rock. The shade helps but the rock is hard and warm to the touch. Laying down on the rock you watch as the horizon rises up toward the sun and shadows appear. Your senses subconsciously notice before you are aware of the change……….

Last Spring saw the death of my mom and a season full of hospital visits, funeral preparations and property issues. That season is still vivid and the fatigue still felt. On the heels of that year visits to the hospital to see my dad and watching his slow demise are harder dealt with. A small emotional ogre preys on me powered by dad’s violent attacks on his wife and the phone calls after each outburst. Arguing with my dad; his self-hatred and control-issues; the ogre crouches in the depths of my psyche.

Every work day draws a different battle. My staff overlooks things I think they should see. Quality seems less important than maintaining personal energy for their personal lives. Things constantly break. I constantly fix. I realize the problem is primarily me. I’m not energized by work, feels like classic burn-out.*

Life is static on the home front as well. Don’t reach for the psych manual yet. I’m not suffering from depression. There are aspects of the day that I fully enjoy, days with my daughter and jaunts in Joshua Tree. There’s a present dryness there though.

…….The wind is coming-a cool breeze, a hint of moisture, a drop in air temperature. As you breathe in through your nose you are reinvigorated. Steps seemed impossible in the heat but that little puff makes you want to dance the jig. It is a wind of refreshing. It is what I am praying for in this coming season. Join me, will you?

*Except I don’t believe in that.

Fatherhood: An Equal Reaction

I catch a glimpse of the wall behind my computer. Squeezed in-between the world map and cycling goals are notes from my daughter; “Dear Dad, thank you so much for helping me move my bed! You Rock!” There is an envelope next to it addressed: To The Best Dad In The World.

If I reach inward I can taste and feel the anger. I was aware of it at seventeen. I was achieving the rank of Eagle Scout. I knew that even if my dad attended the ceremony he attended in name only. The award had been achieved with no involvement from him. The same could be said of my turning eighteen.

The phone calls from my dad’s wife, Ethel, are predictable. She will be (understandably) at the end of her rope because my dad is pulling on it. He will have been angry, violent, abusive or---D: All of the above. The calls often incite guilt in me (see last weeks’ post) for not calling or visiting.

There are two basic laws of physics known to everyone: ‘For every action, an equal reaction’, and ‘an object in motion will stay in motion.’ These two laws have made me a different father than my dad.

An object in motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by an external force. Simmering anger was normative in my life. Christ taught me to forgive and give up control. Being acted upon meant the last thirty years with my dad in my life and a grandfather in Hailey’s’. Reacting to being fatherless I am aggressively involved in the life of my daughter.

A driving force guiding my decisions is to be the father for my daughter that will prevent gaping holes and vacuums in her heart. The key is to do it with a focus on her being a whole person and not letting my chinks and chasms get in the way.