Visiting Dad - Oct 2006

Dad Visit – Maine Oct 2006
Lest my mind grow confused at a later date, or I ever want to remember what very well may be my last visit with my Father – and his home, here is my account of today.

With 10 minutes to get through security and catch my flight, I just barely boarded my plane from Manchester to BWI to Nashville, after a 4 hour ride in a small borrowed pickup truck, which followed a memorable visit with my dad in our childhood house in Troy, Maine. The faded house was overgrown with unkempt dying autumn trees and unruly weeds. At first inspection, the only familiar sign was a blue wheelbarrow we used 1000 times to move split logs from our shed to our basement fireplace. Dad, now an older looking man with thinning white hair and an unkempt beard dressed in jeans, black sneakers and an equally aged flannel shirt, met us at the door. The air was cold and clear except for the lingering sound of the vacuum Dad just unplugged. He positioned himself for a hug but James only allowed a handshake. I too tried to initiate by offering an out-stretched hand, but he leaned in to take a hug. I resisted – and so, maybe we both won and we both lost right from the beginning. With James by my side, we sat on a sofa flanked by our dad who sat extended in his easy chair. The interior walls were smothered with pictures, prints (the crucifixion from Grand pop Yarnell’s house in Philly) woodcarvings (the Noah Ark I once created and since long forgot), plates, and random tapestries that I could not make out. Grand mom Simpson’s corner cabinet stood directly in front of our view next to the black stove I don’t remember. The big screen tv purchased for her season of dying sat in front of the large window – with the stacked stereo component unit nearby. The upright piano we gathered around as kids was placed as a divider between the living and dining rooms – with towering pyramid bookshelves, covered with clutter positioned like bookends on either side. The once beautiful natural pine kitchen seemed suffocated by more clutter and hanging wine holder and adjacent hanging pot holder. I could barely see through to the window we used to wash dishes in front on. I have bad memories of that spot. I feared that the house was haunted – and would spook us and rename us as little boys as we approached the scary villain who lived in it’s dark walls. This trip was not planned or traveled with anxiety. Until last night. Last night, after the warm hospitality and dinner conversation with James and his new bride Jane, James stayed up to talk. We ended up praying. I ended up crying, broken, deeply afraid, and painfully aware of how little I know the love of my Heavenly Father. My center, as James put it, needed to be still and settle into the truth that all this was not my (our) fault. It was not our responsibility to fix. There were no better words, or ways to make my point or persuasion. I never had delusions or misplaced guilt about preventing the divorce, but not getting through to dad – or rekindling a relationship has always felt like mine to bear. Today’s conversation was much anticipated, and yet I finally faced the reality that I could not predict or prepare for this. The outcome would be out of my control. The only control I could have was in side me. I was afraid that maintaining a sense of self would be too much for me – but this is part of why I had come all this way. There did not need to be a big confrontation – in fact I only planned to say kind, compassionate comforting words to my father who was just discharged from the hospital after 2 heart attacks.

We were greeted by a small energetic dog who jumped up wanting attention. Dad talked, and we carefully listened. James seemed perched, ready to jump on the first untruth. I was trying to listen carefully, alert, but strangely calm on the inside. I wanted to be discerning – as Dad has a history of blurring things into the grey. An unsuspecting audience could miss it and get sucked in, but we should know better. Dad is charming and looks you in the eye. He does not strike me as one who crafts lies, rather one who tries to move his listener with whatever it takes. He seems to believe what he says. Initially, the conversation centered on Dad’s medical issues. I asked how many heart attacks he has had. Five. He clarified that several episodes were not detected by the doctors and tests. He said that this episode of 2 smaller heart attacks would have not been a big deal except that he had an allergic reaction to the dye injected in him for one of the tests. His narrative went on to include a dramatic near-death experience where he could not breathe, gasped for help to distracted nurses on the other side of a wall, and curled up in a fetal position. My emotions were engaged and heartfelt, but my mind became a bit cynical wondering if he was really as scared as he sounded or just trying to create some emotional connections with his estranged sons. Dad said he was ok about dying. Not scared. And then he told us about the day his mother died and the day his father died in great detail. The conversation was sobering even a bit morbid, but safe. Then, with a more agitated voice, Dad challenged our visit, stating, “You know you don’t have to wait till I’m dying to come visit”. Bang! The first shot was fired. James responded, and Dad pushed harder, making a case for how “His door is always open”, and he always answers our letters and questions. Phrases flew through the air like daggers back and forth between James and Dad. I felt like a dazed spectator even though these words were about me and I should respond. James, spoke with clarity and strength, dedicated to standing up to anything he found to be false. He even stood up for my wound – heartfelt letters sent to Dad with superficial or no response. Dad, though confined in his easy chair, rose up with his tone, bullying language, and pounding words to make his case for how (my words, not his) he is the victim of a large conspiracy that has left him hurt and all alone. Dad attacked Bill Johnson, a redemptive character in our story, until James fired back, “Bill Johnson has been more of a Father to me than you ever were!” Dad seemed unfazed and kept talking. He acknowledged that he stopped listening, and ended up in a rage. James realized that the dialog was becoming more explosive and unproductive, and exited the room. I stayed behind, as I had more to say. Dad stood up and could not stop his verbal attack even thought James was gone. Once I got Dad to stop attacking Bill Johnson, he shifted to his defense of how the divorce was not his fault and he did everything… I cut him off , as I was not hear to debate this. Looking back on it, I realized James fought his battle with strength and by defending the truth. I wanted to applaud, and cheer and he fought well and displayed the strength that neither came from Dad, nor could be taken by Dad. James is a man. I saw it in the heat of battle. He deserves a metal or a statue. He stood by me. I am a different man, and needed to engage Dad in my own way. Diplomatic by nature, I kept my voice calm and tried to make my case with questions and logic. Remember, I had not planned for this dialogue, so I was not prepared for this moment… what should be said in a moment like this? I wanted to tell him that I had grown tired of his non-responsive, dismissive, surface replies to my heartfelt letters. I wanted to challenge his favorite statement of “my door is always open” as it cleverly shifts the blame off of him and on to our shoulders. I wanted to say that I have been scared of him my whole life – but I’m not scared now. I wanted to say that the reason we don’t have a relationship is not due to the divorce – but due to his absence in my life, and his inability to be honest about our shared family story. I wanted to tell him that I needed to stay away because he was not safe to me or my family. I said these things and Dad seemed to listen – but I’m sure he did not really hear me because he kept defending himself - stating “I did reply to every letter… I’ve always been here, and I’m the one who has loved you unconditionally”. This lie needed to be challenged. Love is active not passive with one’s door “open”. Love But he kept dismissing me (and us) and telling us there are still things we don’t understand. There are things he will not listen to or respond to. Dad continued lashing out at the other kids and why we talk between each other stirring up things – why that’s our business. He said “Just when I start to get to a good place with one of you, you start talking and things you have no idea about, and then I don’t hear from anyone! Families don’t act like that, he shouted. Yes they do, I said back – we care about each other and our brothers and sisters are the best thing we have going for us in this mess. Dad tried to lump us in with the “student who listened to his professors advice that all your problems can be blamed on your parents”. I told him that I do not subscribe to that thinking, and that we men with independent minds and we have come to our own conclusions.

Typical defensiveness and rage, shifted to the bizarre, as Dad, in a rapid pace, told us that he has filing cabinets with every item (letter, gift, card, e-mail) he has sent to us and the kids and record of every reply or returned item or no reply. “If I need to make a case,” he declared, “I can put this all on the table and everyone will see what really happened!” I’m sure my body snapped back a bit as I was amazed to hear of this clearly paranoid plot. He thinks that HE is the victim! That’s amazing! He demands that we forgive and forget (without honest or restoration) and yet he is keeping a record of EVERY perceived wrong done to him. I started to understand that he thinks he did nothing wrong, and that there has been a conspiracy against him all this time.

I started again trying to address the exchange of our letters back and forth over the past years – where I asked him specific questions about his relationship with his father and grandfather and he replied with a historic account of so and so begat so and so but only answered on the surface. Even now, face to face, he would not answer me directly about why he does not respond to the heart of my letters. He redirected the topic to the letter I sent some 7 or 8 years ago, calling it the “crucify dad for everything wrong in your life before you get married” letter. Quite a title, don’t you think? A bit dramatic, and he is certainly going to need a good editor if he’s ever going to make it in the publishing world. But mostly, it is false, and chicken. He referred to a letter I sent to him, and one to mom, just before getting married where I tried to shoot straight. I was reading a book at the time called “Adult Children of Divorce” while seeing a counselor, and both suggested that clearing the air with my parents would be a key step towards honesty and becoming a man. I wrote them both about 5-10 specific things they did right and thanked them. I also voiced 5-10 things they did that were wrong that I had never confronted them about. I know that neither Mom or Dad are perfect; however I never forgot the fact that Mom called immediately, crying and apologizing for how I was hurt. Even at a time when she as hurt and confused, she acted like a parent and made her child’s hurts more important and reached out to voice empathy and desire to restore any bruised parts. Dad replied with rage, pride, defensiveness, and proceeded to blast me for blaming him for anything. Maybe that was a deciding moment in our narrative. His pain and reputation were more important than anything. So sad. There have been so many missed opportunities, where we reached out to our father, and he chose to hold his ground, and not humble himself. I recall my college-era trip to Maine, when I flew home to see what the HELL was going on with news that Jamey was growing depressed and Mom was in danger of Dad’s increasing abuse. That trip was preceded by a phone call from my college room closet. My body shook with fear as I asked, then confronted my father about the rumor that he was abusing, even sexually pushing himself on Mom. He denied it forcefully. Knowing he was not being honest, I flew to Maine and met him in the driveway as he returned from delivering the mail for the USPS. Through a half rolled down window and half cracked car door, we exchanged words, and he told me that he held me responsible for spreading the rumors and told me to get off his property. I was not welcome. Way to speak manhood into your sons, you son of a bitch!

With all of these thoughts in the background, my conversation with Dad continued, as he tried to make our letter writing issue into a technical point, suggesting (from a Marriage Encounter conference, ironically enough) that we attach the letter received with our reply lest we not reply to the original letter. He insults ones intelligence with such instructions to shift guilt-worthy actions to mere misunderstandings that can be fixed with his wisdom. I told him that he is welcome to take this new approach and that I’m willing to try it – but stated again that that we both knew that was not the core problem.

Feeling rushed by the nearing end of our visit, I squeezed in a few declarations. “I’ve been afraid of you my whole life, but I’m not afraid now, “ I said. “I’m not a boy anymore. I am a man. I am not primarily your son, as I’m a dad myself and my priority is now my family – and being a good dad and husband. I only have space for a relationship with you if you are supporting who and where I am now, and so far, this has been not safe, and a negative distraction.”

The phone rang several times, and then James rushed in to signal an end to the conversation. He stood there as I finished my thoughts – and then we moved to leave. Dad, after everything that was just said, moved in AGAIN to take a hug from me, and James, stating, “I’m still your Father. You’re still my sons”. We walked away to the soundtrack of 2 debating voices as Dad and James exchanged “Dad, you’re deceived”… “James, respect your Father! I’ll pray that God humbles you” “Dad, you’re deceived”…

Maine is a beautiful state marked by rugged coastlines, and dark green, almost black pine trees rising above the ocean mist. Deep accents and age-old stories define the locals; salt of the earth kind of people. Still Maine invites restless souls who run away or need to hide. Our home turned out to be a dark secluded place, with fertile soil for growing insecurities into control and failures into pride. When a young dad named William moved here, maybe he was running away from pressure to be just his father, or the unattainable expectations of his mother. Maybe he needed to hide his addition to lust and life-goal for power. It appears that he spent his life wanting to be adored as much as his mother adored him – and so he spent his life asking and needing, then demanding and controlling, then forcing and abusing. This escalating path drove away his wife and 5 children as they realized he would always suck life out of them. And so, sobered and saddened, James and I drove away.