My Dad and I got off to a shaky start in more than one
way. I was born in 1945 when he was
still in France. World War II ended in
time for him to come home for Thanksgiving when I was 7 months old. This delay in bonding wouldn’t have been a
big deal, except that there was a second and larger problem. My Dad had no idea how he negatively impacted
my concept of myself as I began to develop.
Dad did not know Jesus as his personal Savior until I was 7
years old. Even after he made a
commitment to follow Christ and gave up some of his unsavory habits, he did not
understand the hurtfulness of things he said to me. Although there was a level on which I was
sure he loved me, I was wounded by frequent comments that I was fat or stupid
or a “sukie.” That was his word for
someone who lacked courage.
Right up through my teenage years, I could not reconcile my
excellent grades and the admiration of my intelligence by some family members
with my Dad’s comments that I was stupid.
I was always surprised with the high scores I received on standardized
tests. How could I be stupid and score
in the top 1 or 2 percent? I know it
sounds ridiculous, but one tends to believe what a parent says. I remember hearing Dad say that there was no point
in educating women. I knew I wanted an
education and had no idea how this would happen.
Having him call me “fatty” was part of what made me feel
awkward and uncomfortable about my body.
There was a time in my childhood when illness caused me to become too
thin and other times when I was too heavy.
I always felt uncomfortable in my skin.
Dad was very proud of my singing voice. He would tell me that I sang like a
bird. But, he caused me to be terrified
the very first time I sang a solo. I was
only about 8 years old. The title of the
song was “I’ll be a Sun Beam.” He teased
me unmercifully that I was going to get up and sing, “I’ll be a bum seam.” He thought this was funny.
It was a wonder I learned to drive. He had no patience and was given to yelling
even when I was behind the wheel. I
remember one occasion when we were in city traffic, and he got so nasty, that
right out in the driving lane, I put the car into “park,” got out and moved to
the back seat. The only reason I
persevered in getting my license was that my mother had never learned to drive,
and I refused to be as dependent as she was.
I have no idea how I had the courage to attend a college
out-of-state and hundreds of miles from home, but it was a God-inspired
decision. I learned that I could not be
timid, that a certain amount of self-confidence was right and good and
necessary for survival. It was not
sinful to figure out what gifts God had given me and to determine to use them
with His help and for His glory. I lost
weight, got contact lenses, figured out how to wear make-up, became a nurse,
put myself through college AND forgave my father, and all of this was by the
grace of God.
After my Mother’s death, Dad lived with us for about 8
years. We did not always get along or
see eye to eye, but we did live together in peace the vast majority of the
time. I tried once during those years to
talk to him about the hurt…to get it out in the open. I thought I would start by telling him that
it was hurtful to me that he had helped my brothers with their college
education. He had helped me with nursing
school, the entirety of which was equivalent to about one semester of college,
and after that I was on my own. I had to
work hard to pay for my college expenses, and I had not been able to
participate in extra activities on campus.
His only comment was, “Well, you didn’t come out with any debt, did you?” Actually I had come out with some debt,
although minor. But, his rather defiant
tone and facial expression made it clear that he was not able to understand. I gave up on trying to express my
feelings. I just forgave him again.
I loved my Dad.
I am not perfect either….some of his rough edges may even
live on in me.
One of the things we must do as Christians is to lovingly
forgive each other for being frail and imperfect.
God, our heavenly Father, does.
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