One day last week, my husband felt compelled to show me a Rascal Flatts video, "Changed". In his knowing me and my past so well, he also felt compelled to tell me I
would probably cry in my relating to the little girl in the video and her life
with her alcoholic father. He was
right. I stood captivated, yet wanting to
look away at the same time. It brought
memories like a flood of a little girl’s misunderstandings, thinking my father
was always sleepy; anger at a mother who seemed to be yelling all the time just because he wasn't feeling well; isolation in not being allowed to have friends over
or go to their homes, thereby resulting in stunted emotional and social development;
mountains of fear over feeling like I was always on a slippery slope, not ever
knowing what the day would bring but feeling a sense of dread and oppression
with each new day; longing for a sense of safety which I just was not quite
able to apprehend; and the sense of shame in the secret we tried
so hard as a family to hide which would ultimately be exposed.
My worst nightmare came true as a fifth grader when, to my
complete devastation, my father stumbled into my classroom one evening while
our class was awaiting our turn to go on stage for a Christmas music
program. The room fell silent as all
horrified eyes watched to see which child this man was making his way to. My eyes fell downward as I silently prayed he
would not complete his trip to my desk.
Unfortunately, although he was swerving, he headed straight to me,
plopping down on my desk as he slurred out words the specifics of which I don’t
recall but which the boisterous volume stayed etched in my mind. I wanted someone to please come rescue me,
but even my teacher was intimidated and at a loss for what to do. As if the event could not get any worse in my
little mind; it did escalate into something that I would not live down for the
remainder of my elementary days and which rooted an insecurity and shame in me in
which only the Lord Himself would be able to deliver and heal. As if in slow motion, my father leaned
forward to whisper something into my ear and ended up nibbling on my earlobe. I’m sure in his drunken state, he thought he was
delivering a daddy's kiss, yet the reality of which was absolutely inappropriate.
Crushing devastation ravaged my heart, bringing such grief, I felt I might die.
I don’t remember a lot of what happened after that. I’m sure my teacher somehow encouraged him to
go wait out with the rest of the parents while we marched out on stage to the
delight of parents and their cameras. I
probably was able to sing, although I’m likewise certain my countenance was
fallen; failing to depict the typical cheer of the holiday season.
The next morning, I remember going into my parents’ master
bath where my father was shaving. I
always felt a sense of hypnotic intrique as the blade would glide over his face,
swiping away perfect lines of white foam, leaving baby smooth skin in its wake. I loved the scratchy scraping sound as the
blade would encounter his rough beard, while he held his face in a precarious
position that would make me giggle. This
time was different than the lighthearted previous mornings; yet in a gentle way, I gazed at him with eyes of compassion as he looked down with the same shame I
had felt the night before. He set his
razor down, and with a wavering voice, in humiliation, he quietly whispered,
“Honey, I’m so sorry.” In wisdom beyond
my ten years on Earth, I felt the necessity to forgive him and let him know I
loved him anyway.
I’m not sure how many more times my father drank after that
or if that was the “hitting bottom” moment alcoholics need to reach before they
have finally had enough and want to get help to stop the self destruction and
the havoc they are wrecking on their loved ones, and themselves, but I do remember as a ten year old, that
my father decided to stop drinking and began the difficult task of recovering
his life and restoring his family. I
know he had to have a humbled posture before the Lord, where he “hit his knees”,
surrendering under the Lordship and healing ministry of the one who understands
and loves my dad perfectly. Dad, like
all of us, had to come to the place where he KNEW he could no longer continue
in his own worthless strength and that he had to move himself out of his epic fail
as the one in control.
Thankfully, Dad had the God given fortitude to overcome the
addiction to alcohol and escape the prison which that lifestyle had brought
into his life and ours. He was
successful in rebuilding his life through the grace of the Lord. I grew up and so did my dad. As a young woman, I got to experience a
rewarding relationship with my father. I
watched the transformation which only Jesus can give as He delivered my father
step-by-step, teaching him wisdom along the way of which I eventually got to
partake. I got to witness that he was
not the same man as the one who caused so much pain in my childhood. The wonderful thing about when Jesus brings
restoration is that with the healing, comes a refreshing forgetfulness of the
past. It just melts away, only leaving
behind a sense of victory and no longer victimization. It grows you into a
person who understands that life circumstances contributed to the individual you are
today. It gives a sense of purpose
whereby you are equipped and can freely give to others to help them out of
despairing circumstances.
I can say that although my father was not a walking Bible,
he leaned on the Lord and walked in peace.
When life’s tragedies would strike, Dad would speak the same encouraging words to me, “Keep looking up” and “Keep on keepin’ on.” Those simple phrases coupled with the strength
of the Lord I could feel behind them, were all I needed at times to motivate me
to keep going when I felt like I could no longer continue.
My father has gone home to be with the Lord. My time with him in the beauty of our
father-daughter relationship fell far too short. During some of our final moments together, he
bared his soul, again sorrowful for the father he had been, wishing he could
take back the harm he caused. In the
grace of our Lord, I was able to reassure him that he is a wonderful father and
I am honored and grateful to be his daughter.
I wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s child. Like the daughter in the Rascal
Flatt’s video at the beginning of this blog, I was able to peal off the lies,
which were no longer a part of his life.
That man was gone forever. The
neglect was gone forever. The lies were
gone forever. The selfishness was gone
forever. The Lord in His mercy reached
down and rescued my father and his family; no longer to be drowning in the
deluge of destruction, but instead submerged in full surrender to the one who
is All Sufficient!
The true person my father is, and I say “is” because he
continues on forever with the Lord; is one who blessed people with his kind,
sweet spirit. He was gentle, yet I felt
strength emanating from him. He was
humble yet confident in whom he was in Christ.
He imparted wisdom without seeming like he was forcing it so it was
welcomed by all who sought it from him. He
smiled easily and his eyes twinkled with the joy of the Lord. His hands were warm with a healing touch,
bringing comfort whenever he would lovingly embrace me. He was patient and a great listener, so I
always felt safe, knowing he wasn’t judging me.
I love him with all my heart and feel fortunate he was my Earthly
father.
I am certainly grateful that I know he was born again and
that someday I will join him in perfection to be together forever. My own journey to overcome what was imparted
to me through such a troubled childhood has not been easy, but one for which I
can honestly say that I’m OK with it. It
has brought me much treasure which I can help others with in this difficult and
troublesome world.
I am grateful to Jesus, for transforming those of us who will
receive Him, into His image. I may not be perfected yet, but I am on my way as
the Lord continues to deal with and work with me. I am grateful to be in the ranks with my
father, who can declare, “I’m changed.”
