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My Father's Lap

For as long as I can remember, my brother has been fascinated with reptiles. At any given moment, a new snake would pop up in the tank in the corner of his bedroom. I would always follow him into his room and watch intently as he opened the brown paper bag and reached in with his right hand to grab the plastic bag of goldfish. I would ease up to the glass tank and watch with excitement as the garter snakes slithered over to their make-shift pond to satiate their appetite.

When a new snake accompanied my brother home from camp, I was unaware that change was coming. I followed my brother into his room and watched as he opened the paper bag. This time, he didn't pull out the bag of fish. I was hysterical with fear as I watched the baby mice, pink in color, whose eyes were not even open to see the fate that awaited them. I ran from the room, crying out for my father, screaming, "It's not fair! They are only babies!"

My father ran up the stairs to find me out of breath with tears streaming down my face. He sat down in the middle of the hallway, Indian style, and pulled me into the refuge of his lap. And for the next thirty minutes, we were the only two people who existed in my world...my father and I, along with all of the animals who encompassed a full discussion about the "circle of life."

My father found a way to expand the idealism of a five year-old to a world that included the harsh reality of gazelles and lions with a gentleness that can only be found between a father and his little girl.

A Father's Memory

I kept looking for the impossible, a reflection of my childhood that matched my own memory. In every question, every thought, I was laying the bait and hanging out, waiting for him to take it. He never did. His stories were chiseled down into fragments that did not resemble the original. It seems that our truths will never match. I will believe. He will believe. Forgiveness is our common ground.

Paradox

My dad is his own paradox. I am unsure if he is a great man that says and does bad things or a bad mad that says and does great things.

Important vs. Useless

"I think fathers feel important and useless at different points in their life." I've thought a lot about this statement. When a father faces layoffs or unemployment, what are the thoughts that swirl in their heads, the thoughts that leave them full off of silence at the dinner table. Or sullen faced behind the chaotic words of the newspaper. I wonder what cornered my own father into feeling useless. What made him throw his voice on every birthday and Christmas? Was Santa Clause my parents’ credit card?

Examples

Respecting, loving, and cherishing women often comes from the example set by a son's father. Demanding to be respected, loved, and cherished often comes from the example set by a daughter's father. Sons grow to resent their father for the treatment of their mother. And daughters have been known to search for their father's love and acceptance inside the walls of someone else's bedroom.

How has resentment played into your life? Have you experienced or witnessed the search for love and acceptance?

The Jesus Syndrome

My phone rang. It was not anyone I expected. It was my mother’s friend asking me to apply for a job opening in his office. “Your father is your greatest supporter. He talks about you as if you can walk on water. And I need someone who can walk on water.”

It makes me wonder how many other fathers believe their children can walk on water. And how many children have wished for that.

What are your thoughts or experiences?

Big Hands

Popcorn usually went hand in hand with the television. I remember being fascinated at the way my father’s hand would reach into the bowl and devour the pieces of popcorn. I was so little and my hands could only handle three kernels at a time. My brother would whisper to me, “Look at how much he takes!” And we would sit there and watch him in awe as if we were watching Godzilla pluck Grace from the top of the Empire State Building.

When did you stop viewing your father or grandfather through the eyes of a child?

Forgiveness

It was my father that made me listen to Bob, the bipolar 67 year-old close talker. I intended to sit at the bar alone, and have a divine breakfast of Belgian waffles with warm syrup and fresh strawberries that I ordered from my barstool. But just as I reached for my hot chocolate, he came from behind me and said, “I’m going out for a cigarette.” It was as if we had come to the coffee shop together, as if I knew that the cane and the books and on the counter next to me, belonged to him. The man to the right of me said, “You just met Bob.”

My eyes were half-closed when I heard Bob’s voice again. I was taking in the sweetness of the strawberries and whipped cream. “Having a big breakfast, huh? I just had mine. It looks good. Nothing like fresh strawberries.” And with every sentence, the grayness of his beard came closer to my cheek, teasing me, threatening to let me feel its roughness. I chose not to ignore him. Instead I turned and looked at him, “You are right. Strawberries are the best.” And from that point on, we stumbled through Bob’s autobiography, weaving through decades of mistakes and choices.

We ended with the relationship with his daughter and his granddaughters. And the guilt he associated with everything he’d done in his life. “I have been addicted to drugs and alcohol. I ran with prostitutes. I have done a lot of things that I am ashamed of. It just seemed like my friends went right and I went left and I had no idea how to get back to the right.” He mentioned his like and dislike for the Catholic Church. "I went to my priest and said, Father, I no longer want to be associated with the Catholic Church because of all of the guilt I have.” Again we laughed. And then I spoke. “Bob, you can’t change what you have done. It’s in the past. You can either release it and move on or allow it to eat you up for the rest of your life. Either way, you can’t change the past so you have to take the steps to forgive yourself.” And he looked at me, with his eyes squinted, and asked, “But how do I let go of all of the guilt I have? How do I move on?” And that’s when I realized that Bob represented all of the fathers I had never spoken with. The ones who were ashamed of their past and sometimes their present. The ones who never said ‘I love you’ to their children. The ones who wanted to do better but didn’t know where to start. I looked at Bob and in one moment, secretly forgave my father for everything he ever did in his life….for the things I knew about and the things I would never know. I then forgave Bob for his daughter.

That conversation bridged a gap in my relationship with my own father. Six months later, I saw Bob again. Not at that coffee shop, but in my own father’s eyes. Forgiveness was a little easier the second time around.

How have you struggled with forgiveness in your own life?

Absent Fathers

What does it take inside of you to not call your child, to not remember birthdays, to not show up at their little league games. I wonder about the turmoil that a father experiences. I wonder if a playground gives them flashbacks. I wonder what they say if someone asks, "Do you have children." Their story has never been told. I simply wonder....if they wonder. And if their pain comes anywhere near the pain they create through their absence.

What are your thoughts? Do you think absent fathers suffer emotionally?

Old Age

Feeding my father. It was almost like a role reversal. I was very aware of my discomfort with every spoonful of jello. For the first time in my life, I saw the vulnerability of old age. Me, sitting there, opening the lid on his plastic hospital juice cup, like a two year old. And then I watched him take it from me and hold it in his left hand. "Is this juice cold?" he said, as the icy condensation beaded down the side of the cup and landed on his palm. Weeks later, that same hand would twice experience the burn of the teakettle, without the pain.

Imperfect balance and words that drifted aimlessly out the side of his mouth. This was not the father I knew growing up, nor the father I knew just one week before. After two weeks in the rehabilitation hospital, he returned to the house he knew and I returned once again to the father I didn't.

I told myself that I would have to grow accustomed to walking behind him and seeing that occasional stumble that was present in between coherent steps. But I never did. Years later, I have to process the demands I have for him...to continue to understand that my expectations are for the father I knew, not the father I know.

What is your experience with aging parents?