When my eldest grandson was 4 years old he was asked by his Children's Church teacher to make a replica of an angel; a messenger of GOD. Dylan drew a male angel with wings and a full beard and mustache. He was 4 years old. He showed it to me at home and I was surprised to see that Dylan had drawn an angel with a very dark, beard and a mustache that not at all colored like the rest of the angel which was light blue. I asked him why he drew the angel with such an unusual face. He tipped his head and examined the angel and said: "I dunno Pop Pop, I think that must be what an angel looks like." Long after the time Dylan ran off to go to bed, I looked at the angel again. It became clear to me. Dylan's view of GOD was deeply impacted by his relationship with his grandfather, the pastor. The mustached and bearded angel's manicured facial hair very closely resemble my own trademarked facial decor. He infused into his drawing the closest thing he knew to GOD. His grandfather. I was humbled and afraid. I never really experienced any flattery from his attribution. I knew far too well how far I was from being in the image of Christ. I am certainly a work in progress. The gospel song, "Please Be Patient with Me God Is Not Through with Me Yet" could very well be my theme song.
For children and for other grown folk who don't know GOD through Christ Jesus, we are the main piece of scripture they'll know. The only church service they see. It's how they will view GOD until they come to know Him for themselves. Just like Dylan knew GOD through his Pop Pop.
Jesus said, "Let your lights so shine fore men that they might see (observe and contemplate) your good works and (in turn) glorify your father in heaven." In this saying Christ gives to his followers an obligation to correct, loving, righteous behavior in the view of those who are not followers or disciples of Christ.
I have tucked the angel away with a number of cards, notes and drawings he made for me. Every now and then I'll pull the angel out and look at it. I am always stricken with the need to be an exemplary man, grandpa and minister in before him.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
FATHER PAIN AND FORGIVENESS
"When I moved in here I gave you five thousand dollars!" These were the indignant words of my father in response to my request that he replace a deeply sentimental gift to my wife I had made. I gave the gift on the occasion of my wife's gift to me of her kidney after mine had failed from diabetic complications. The gift was a replica of the statue called The Kiss. It is a famous sculpture of a man and woman locked in a nude embrace, passionately kissing. My wife and I called it The Kidney. When my grandson first saw it he was 6 years old. He looked at it studiously and looked up at me with his eyes fixed on mine. He looked at the statue again and circled it in wide eyed amazement, He said; "Pop Pop, why is this in the house?" I laughed and explained to him the reason I purchased it. I asked him if he thought it was a bad thing and he said he didn't know. Despite my grandson's reservations the artwork was a symbol of love, fidelity and sacrifice for my wife and I. It was prominently displayed in our entry way, fittingly so.
In an act of carelessness my father broke the statue and attempted to glue it together in a crude and haphazard manner. When I saw it I was shocked and disappointed. He didn't mention the broken piece of sentimentality. He waited for me to say something to him about it. When I asked him how it was broken he gave an answer that caused me more disappointment and disgust. He had broken a clear house rule and the result was the destruction of a piece of art that held emotional and historical significance for Lynette and I. He quickly told me he would replace the broken sculpture. Okay, it won't truly replace it but, well, okay. It took me a few weeks to determine how much the replacement cost would be.
When I informed my father of the cost he became visibly angered. It was at this point that he mentioned the alleged five thousand dollars he gave me. It was actually two thousand dollars and that was not unreasonable considering he got a large heated room, kitchen privileges and off street parking. He would have to pay that for a lesser living quarters almost anywhere in the city. My first response to his indignation was anger. How dare he mention what he gave me when he moved into my home? He never paid a dime in child support, rarely even saw me as a child nor did he ever inquire as to my well being! I very briefly contemplated telling him that whatever he gave me was 45 years late and still insufficient! I controlled my temper and told him his attitude was obnoxious and intolerable. A yelling match ensued. Though I didn't tell him that he needed to relocate. I knew he knew it was time to go. It was a relief. For three years he had disregarded house rules, privacy, courtesy and general respect, repeatedly and unrepentantly. I was tired and so was my wife. When he finally told me he had found a place to go relief morphed into exultation. I would have my life and home back.
The relationship with my father was always difficult for me. Before it was difficult it was hardly existent. Though a big personality and hugely popular character in Boston and Cambridge, to me he was a ghost. A figure that quickly appeared and disappeared at different stages of my life. He never knew my birthday. When I was a child he honored the day once. He gave me his white 10 speed white racing bike for my 13th birthday. I had already been given a emerald green, chopper bike with a mile high sissy bar earlier in the week. We never really clicked or bonded. We never had father and son time alone when I was a kid, or teen. I always shared him with his woman or girlfriend for the day or the weekend. I never really got to know him and he certainly never really got to know me; his son. When I was married I asked him to be my "best man" as an act of respect and generosity. The relationship remained strained and distant.
At the time he moved into our home he was at a low point in his life. His health and circumstances had taken a nose dive. I felt sorry for him. I felt guilt about knowing he needed a place to stay and not wanting to offer him to share my space. Though he wasn't much of a father figure to me he was funny and could be fun to be around. I considered him a friend. I truly felt that the time for us as father and son was long gone. There had been too much time, too little regard for his absences and far too many hurts to be repaired. The only hope I held was one of forgiveness and friendship. He immediately became a member of my church and set about to helping me grow the church numerically. He worked tirelessly as a bus driver and unofficial evangelist. He introduce many people to the church and ultimately to the gospel through his charitable acts. At one time he collected food that would have been discarded by a renowned eatery and distributed it to homeless and needy people in the street.
In retrospect the way my father handled the broken statue is the way he handled many issues in his life. He attempted to make things right by his version of glue; humor, money, favors and half hearted apologies. Somewhere deep inside, in a place I don't think he ever really visited, he was in a lot of emotional pain. Whatever or whomever had created whom he was had left a very wounded boy who had grown into a wounded man who created his own wounds on his son. He was never able to have a transparent and real conversation with me about what his absence in my life had cost me. All I ever really wanted from him was acceptance of responsibility for his actions. Because he couldn't do it a gulf existed between us. It was cordial. It was friendly. It was loving but it was a gulf. I tried hard to maintain an attitude of forgiveness about it but it took a lot of prayer and acceptance. Forgiveness is not often a one time event when dealing with family issues or people. We are flawed. We make mistakes. We have good intentions but we so often miss the mark in our attempts. My very difficult relationship with my father did teach me that forgiveness is not merely a principle but a commitment to a truth that can challenge your rhetoric and your faith. I didn't experience much change in the relationship but there was some change in me. I had never intended to forgive my father for his abandonment of me. In some ways my anger around that issue fueled my desire to do what he didn't do but that is really negative in it's impetus. Living with my father forced me to deal with my anger on a daily basis. Would I live with the bitter attitude or would I live out my faith and just accept who he was. It was easier to do the latter and more to the point it was right and righteous.
My father is now dead and gone to his eternal reward. Living with forgiveness while he was living made his passing an easier transition for me. I didn't have all the regret, anger, and angst that can accompany a death without forgiveness and resignation. The years and experiences that I did not have with my father will never be. I don't think there is a healing for that. I think there is redemption for it. GOD is able to make all things work out for the good of them that love Him. I have a compassion and connection for others who have similar pain. I work for the betterment of children who also have missing parents; especially fathers. Therein is the good from out of the bad. By the way, he never replaced the statue. All that remains where the object once stood is a scarred wall with bits of glue. Someday I will repair and patch the wall; paint it. Redeem the site.
In an act of carelessness my father broke the statue and attempted to glue it together in a crude and haphazard manner. When I saw it I was shocked and disappointed. He didn't mention the broken piece of sentimentality. He waited for me to say something to him about it. When I asked him how it was broken he gave an answer that caused me more disappointment and disgust. He had broken a clear house rule and the result was the destruction of a piece of art that held emotional and historical significance for Lynette and I. He quickly told me he would replace the broken sculpture. Okay, it won't truly replace it but, well, okay. It took me a few weeks to determine how much the replacement cost would be.
When I informed my father of the cost he became visibly angered. It was at this point that he mentioned the alleged five thousand dollars he gave me. It was actually two thousand dollars and that was not unreasonable considering he got a large heated room, kitchen privileges and off street parking. He would have to pay that for a lesser living quarters almost anywhere in the city. My first response to his indignation was anger. How dare he mention what he gave me when he moved into my home? He never paid a dime in child support, rarely even saw me as a child nor did he ever inquire as to my well being! I very briefly contemplated telling him that whatever he gave me was 45 years late and still insufficient! I controlled my temper and told him his attitude was obnoxious and intolerable. A yelling match ensued. Though I didn't tell him that he needed to relocate. I knew he knew it was time to go. It was a relief. For three years he had disregarded house rules, privacy, courtesy and general respect, repeatedly and unrepentantly. I was tired and so was my wife. When he finally told me he had found a place to go relief morphed into exultation. I would have my life and home back.
The relationship with my father was always difficult for me. Before it was difficult it was hardly existent. Though a big personality and hugely popular character in Boston and Cambridge, to me he was a ghost. A figure that quickly appeared and disappeared at different stages of my life. He never knew my birthday. When I was a child he honored the day once. He gave me his white 10 speed white racing bike for my 13th birthday. I had already been given a emerald green, chopper bike with a mile high sissy bar earlier in the week. We never really clicked or bonded. We never had father and son time alone when I was a kid, or teen. I always shared him with his woman or girlfriend for the day or the weekend. I never really got to know him and he certainly never really got to know me; his son. When I was married I asked him to be my "best man" as an act of respect and generosity. The relationship remained strained and distant.
At the time he moved into our home he was at a low point in his life. His health and circumstances had taken a nose dive. I felt sorry for him. I felt guilt about knowing he needed a place to stay and not wanting to offer him to share my space. Though he wasn't much of a father figure to me he was funny and could be fun to be around. I considered him a friend. I truly felt that the time for us as father and son was long gone. There had been too much time, too little regard for his absences and far too many hurts to be repaired. The only hope I held was one of forgiveness and friendship. He immediately became a member of my church and set about to helping me grow the church numerically. He worked tirelessly as a bus driver and unofficial evangelist. He introduce many people to the church and ultimately to the gospel through his charitable acts. At one time he collected food that would have been discarded by a renowned eatery and distributed it to homeless and needy people in the street.
In retrospect the way my father handled the broken statue is the way he handled many issues in his life. He attempted to make things right by his version of glue; humor, money, favors and half hearted apologies. Somewhere deep inside, in a place I don't think he ever really visited, he was in a lot of emotional pain. Whatever or whomever had created whom he was had left a very wounded boy who had grown into a wounded man who created his own wounds on his son. He was never able to have a transparent and real conversation with me about what his absence in my life had cost me. All I ever really wanted from him was acceptance of responsibility for his actions. Because he couldn't do it a gulf existed between us. It was cordial. It was friendly. It was loving but it was a gulf. I tried hard to maintain an attitude of forgiveness about it but it took a lot of prayer and acceptance. Forgiveness is not often a one time event when dealing with family issues or people. We are flawed. We make mistakes. We have good intentions but we so often miss the mark in our attempts. My very difficult relationship with my father did teach me that forgiveness is not merely a principle but a commitment to a truth that can challenge your rhetoric and your faith. I didn't experience much change in the relationship but there was some change in me. I had never intended to forgive my father for his abandonment of me. In some ways my anger around that issue fueled my desire to do what he didn't do but that is really negative in it's impetus. Living with my father forced me to deal with my anger on a daily basis. Would I live with the bitter attitude or would I live out my faith and just accept who he was. It was easier to do the latter and more to the point it was right and righteous.
My father is now dead and gone to his eternal reward. Living with forgiveness while he was living made his passing an easier transition for me. I didn't have all the regret, anger, and angst that can accompany a death without forgiveness and resignation. The years and experiences that I did not have with my father will never be. I don't think there is a healing for that. I think there is redemption for it. GOD is able to make all things work out for the good of them that love Him. I have a compassion and connection for others who have similar pain. I work for the betterment of children who also have missing parents; especially fathers. Therein is the good from out of the bad. By the way, he never replaced the statue. All that remains where the object once stood is a scarred wall with bits of glue. Someday I will repair and patch the wall; paint it. Redeem the site.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)