My relationship with him wrapped in both love and tension. My father, who went deaf at infancy and made sure all three of his kids could sign, could communicate complete thoughts with me in a series of a few facial expressions; we could read each other’s minds like only two blood related people could. We were, indeed, a great deal alike.
And yet.
So much of our relationship was wasted under the shadow of misunderstanding.
Just after midnight, on May 1st of 2019, my father passed away after a long, agonizing, and dehumanizing battle with the effects of a series of strokes. My father was a minister to the deaf, and his passing put a void in the deaf community he served. That was evident by the ratio of deaf-to-hearing people at his funeral, which was roughly ten to one. Their presence made for a lively and uniquely visual experience.
While the memory of my last conversation, and two months later, my last moments with him linger in differing layers of a painful haze, I am eternally thankful for all of the elements he brought into my life. I would not be the woman I am today without it. After 53 years, I am finally growing to like that person.
While his dedication to his ministry took him away from his family more times than I care to remember, I was still able to be on the receiving end of his ability to clarify the scriptures, even when I thought he was wrong. Even as his mental faculties were starting to betray him, I remember him sitting across from me at my sister’s dining room table, challenging me like a pit bull on my newly found Reformed theology. Out of nothing but respect, I would hold my nose and allow him to have the last word. Today, I find myself craving those debates.
Second only to the passing of my paternal grandmother in 1990, nothing was more painful than the weeks after his death. Some of the inevitable conflict between myself, my siblings and my Mom, inflicted tiny cuts in my soul. Each one of us saw him differently.
And yet.
The night before the funeral I was working on a photo board that I insisted we have at the entry to the church. I laid all of the photos out on a piece of paper, then accidentally cut the poster board several inches too short on both sides. While my tears were smearing the neatly printed lettering on obviously washable ink, I texted my sister. I wish I saved the text of that conversation because even though I don’t remember what she said, a calm came over me. While it felt like we were miles apart on some issues, there was still a sense of unity. God was present.
The Bible speaks a lot about how we are to respect, honor and obey our parents. Jesus also tells us to love our neighbors, which probably includes family members that we don’t agree with. Our family dynamic was unconventional at best, and dysfunctional at worst. It depended on the season, or the day.
I would be irresponsible to minimize the pain that a family member can inflict on another, or just plain clueless to say that time heals all wounds.
And yet.
When you start to view people and circumstances through the eyes of a loving Heavenly Father, things change. Just like the things that we want in this world where nothing comes by without hard work and patience, this kind of spiritual shift can only happen when we are intentional in obedience and patient in waiting on His perfect timing. I am not even kidding, it is a daily battle. It is one that requires prayer, Bible reading and the words of other Christians who are a lot wiser than me.
So this one is for you, Dad. While our relationship was both a tangled mess and a unity of creative minds, while you fed my soul, but often left me wondering if I’d ever be enough, I still loved you. And I know now, that you loved me too. You lead me to Christ in your unconventional way, and God’s plan continues to play out in my life. And THAT is the greatest gift of all.
