Forgiveness
Forgiveness. If I have not walked through the valley of despair, the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I would not understand grace, I would not fully understand forgiveness. I may not yet, even now. As I was reading the gospels, I came across the vignettes where the disciples ask Jesus, “Lord, teach us to pray.” The result is the “Our Father.” What struck me at the time was (and is), “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Grace received, grace given.
Grace Encroaches
My dad left when I was six. Though tragic, it is an all too common event. What is the statistic? Nearly half of all marriages here end in divorce. This includes mine. To say I have struggled with these circumstances for my entire life is a gross understatement. It becomes merely a passing remark and then I move on. It is a melodrama common to man. Don’t be a crybaby. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. The universe is a big place, your little life doesn’t matter.
But it did to me. It wasn’t the hurt so much. It was the separation. The separation. A vast emptiness. It took decades to suppress it, I am still suppressing it, and I suspect I will be trying to suppress it on my death bed. But then I got over it. Really? No, the emptiness was replaced with anger. That and cynicism, skepticism, distrust, even hate, suspicion, hunger, fear, FEAR. When is my daddy coming home? Oh, he’s not.
Over the years, as I began confronting my own great failures, I thought I needed to rekindle my relationship with my dad. A visit is not a relationship. Visiting is an apt description of our three decades of interacting. I began inviting him to scientific conferences with me, where he could also “protect” me from some of the women circling me. I know, a weak strategy, but I did get to know him better a little bit at a time. Later, when I was on consulting business close to where he lived, I tried to drop in for a day or two as I was coming and going.
I would show up, we’d grab some Chinese food, and share a glass or three of Scotch whiskey. Johnnie Walker Red. Definitely not the greatest, but it greased the conversations. I enjoyed them, not because I needed the company, but because they gave me little glimpses into my dad’s life and personality. He was a lot like me! Uncomfortably so.
In one such discussion, we were pretty drunk, we talked of the past. With tears in his eyes, he pleaded with me, “Can you forgive me for leaving your mother?” I was actually filled with compassion as I answered him, “Of course I can.” Pay attention to the verb “can.” Can not do.
I thought the issue was settled, finished, closed for almost two decades. As of this writing, he is almost ninety-six years old; mind good, body failing, mood sullen. My dominant emotions from interactions with him these days are frustration and resentment, likely rooting from unreleased anger. What is the point, at this point? 😉 Conversations with my mother’s siblings began to undermine my feelings about my dad. Her older sister kept reminding me she was praying for him; lost cause as far as I knew. Her younger sister cared for, shall we say, her particularly unpleasant mother (my mom’s stepmother) until the end, after age one hundred. As I was bemoaning frustration with my dad, complaining that I could not seem to get a handle on my resentment, the younger sister shared a comment from her only brother referring to his stepmom, “Maybe she lived so long because it took me that long to forgive her.” Whack! I hadn’t really forgiven my dad as I thought.
It took me a while, but eventually I called my uncle and asked him about his comment regarding his stepmother. Acknowledging what he’d said about her after I explained my predicament, he began to tell me about Dad as a young man just returned from World War II and a few years older than my uncle. In my uncle’s wise words:
“Your dad was a hero to me. He helped me get acclimated when I started college, far from home. He was somewhat of a mentor; always gave good advice. Though not perfect, he was a Christian in his youth. I know when he abandoned you little kids and your mother, he must have felt he’d walked away from his faith, given up salvation, too. And yet through the grace of God, though your dad was faithless, God is faithful and is patiently awaiting your dad’s return to the fold. He was forgiven, he is forgiven, he will be forgiven and he will reclaim his divine inheritance. If you can put yourself in your dad’s shoes, it will release your own anger and resentment and the frustration that you have been feeling. Pray for your dad. I will be praying for you.”
If I can put myself in my dad’s shoes? I was my dad! I am my dad! I am in his shoes! The story of my life is my dad’s story; only the names have been changed to protect the innocent 😉 I suspect it is a story common to man. I started praying for my dad.
Praying for him is not forgiving him. Maybe it is a start, but it still seems somehow unsatisfying. Where is the release of my resentment? Where is my dad’s acknowledgment of his son-ship? Is not a result the reason to pray? Again, wisdom from my spiritual betters, my mom’s sister: Your job is to be faithful to that which God’s spirit is telling you. That is my responsibility, to be faithful to the voice of the spirit living in me, that still small voice. That is my discipline. That is the result! My dad’s fate is in God’s hands, not mine.
Lord, teach me to pray. Abba, Father! I declare before you, that I forgive my dad as you have forgiven me. Hold me up to be faithful to what you ask of me. Have your way with me in all my weakness that you may receive glory. Into your loving hands I commend my dad that he may know you and your son Jesus whom you sent to redeem him. Though I often do not understand this mystery of mercy and grace, I pray that you would release these gifts into the world through your people that glorify your name. Lord, save us! Lord, save me! Lord, save my dad. And bless him with your presence. Make my “can” a “do” in Jesus’ name.
To be honest, despite this prayer, I struggle to be consistent (faithful?) even though I believe God hears my prayer. God knows my equivocation. Perhaps my dad senses that hedge, too. My feelings run rampant. I swing between caring love and disgust, even rage at times. And yet. And yet. Through the free gift of grace, in Christ, my hope is in him who made all things. God saved me. He is saving me. Why? For good works. Perhaps this is one of them. God, save my dad!
Grace received, grace given.