Waiting for my dad to allow the light of truth to expose his darkness seemed lengthy, and it was. As the years trickled by I wondered - what if he never does get it? What if he never truly understands what he did? I still struggle to understand why the abuse happened. I'm fairly convinced that my dad was a believer, how could something like sexual abuse happen...continually? I still don't know the answers. What I do know is that humanity in general is depraved and despicable and people do despicable things, the driving force being deception and lies. I'm reminded that as a Christian I do not fight against things I can see , but against lies and other strongholds that tend to settle down in my mind. The battle field is the mind, and my dad must have lost some significant ones.
One day I received a call from my sister who told me dad was not doing very well. My dad was jaundiced , tired and sick. He had liver problems in the past and now it seemed like the issues were back with a vengeance. He came home to rest , but ended up driving himself to London where concerned family members got him, barely conscious, to a hospital. The not so good news trickled in until it settled to one thing "liver failure". I remember feeling as though I was about to walk through a large dark valley, and I asked God to give me a light to carry. I had not really spoken to my dad in about 5-6 years, and hearing the words "liver failure" did not have the same effect on me as they would have had on a healthy father/daughter relationship. I remember being confused , wondering , was I supposed to be devastated? I felt like I needed someone to tell me what to feel, someone to tell me what was the proper and acceptable response. I was surprised to find that I really did not feel that much at all....except an icy calmness and a dread of the unspoken fact - "you can't live that long without a functioning liver". My dad was eventually put on a waiting list for a liver transplant (other issues delaying that decision). My sisters and my mom urged my brother and I to see him as he was asking for us. I searched my thoughts and what feelings I had and decided that I would go , for me. I felt like I would have left something unsettled somehow if I did not go.
Leading up to that day possible scenarios played in my head, where my dad on his death bed somehow managed to say the right words that would briefly restore our relationship like in a movie. I felt another emotion working its way through the confusion, which was anger. After I realized I was angry, I hunted down the cause. Even if my dad did somehow breach the barrier that was between us, why did he waste all that time? I was very nervous and upset about seeing my dad in the hospital. "What if's" flooded my mind and my anxiety level rose. Sunday ended up coming before the dreaded visit and knowing how upset I was my husband prompted me to respond to the weekly call for prayer (actually he literately pushed me over there). As I , with many tears, spilled out my struggles, they responded to my pain and prayed with me. Gradually a calm replaced the boiling anxiety, not a unfeeling cold calm, but a strengthening knowledge that God would be with me. One of the ladies mentioned something about forgiveness. I thought she must have been mistaken, I was quite sure I had already forgiven my dad for what he did. On the drive home, the term "forgiveness" was stuck in my head and in a flash I realized why I still felt angry. Although I had forgiven my dad for what he had done to me , I had not forgiven him for what he failed to do in the past 5-6 years. I still had an expectation for him, as well as a slim hope that God would make him into a new person somehow. In the back of my mind I heard God telling me that I needed to forgive my dad for what he did not do, and I also needed to let go of the hope/expectation that I had. I cried as I let the "hope of reconciliation" slip away. As I thought about this journey I have taken , I realized that I had now grieved three times for my dad. I grieved while letting go of the dad I thought he was, I grieved for the person he decided to be, and now I had grieved for the dad I wanted him to become.
As the day we were to visit my dad arrived I took the church ladies advice and decided not to think or feel anything until I got there. Whatever I felt or said would be right at the right time. When the time to leave marched up my brother , Mark and I made the trip to London , not talking about what we were expecting until we got there. As I looked at my dad, thin and weak, I remember feeling surprised at how much he looked like his own dad. He was confused and very sleepy. He apologized again and said if he made it through this he wanted us all to be a family again. The words held little meaning for me as they were echos of words I had heard before, the absence of required actions nullifying the intended meaning of them. I told him I forgave him for what he did as well as what he didn't do. The "didn't do" seemed to surprise him a little. After mom woke him up to say we were leaving, I said my last goodbye. On the way home and in the weeks after a quiet peace stayed with me, the tears were gone. Two - three weeks after our visit my dad passed away.
At the funeral I remember seeing my Uncle John and for a second I thought it was my dad. I remember his firm handshake, silly jokes, odd political opinions , so much like my dad. It felt strange seeing a person very much like my dad while my dad was in a casket at the other end of the room. The feeling of loss settled down in my mind, but the peace did not leave and with it came freedom and happiness. I think I must have confused some of the well wishers with my smile. I was genuinely happy, which was strange considering the circumstances. The tears for my dad were gone and peace, healing and freedom had taken their place.
