“Are you sure?”
I don’t remember whether those were the exact words he used. I don’t actually remember a whole lot of details about the event at all. Those I do recall, I no longer know how accurate they are. The feelings have always been clear, though: the wishing to be together and the deep understanding that it was not meant to be.
Perhaps I should begin at the beginning. The way I tell my story may not be exactly the way it happened, but this is how I experience the memory.
It was a Saturday morning, much like this one. The sun shone in the partly cloudy sky, streaming down on the grass and the concrete in front of our ranch-style suburban home. My father stood in the living room, his 5’10” seeming very tall compared to my own few feet. He was asking whether I wanted to join him as he ran some small weekend errand.
I really, truly did. I was a Daddy’s girl when I was little. My parents told me the stories of when my father had to travel for work. He would lay his suitcase out on the bed to pack. He’d set neatly folded clothes in place, then when he turned away to choose another item from his dresser, I would take something out. Apparently, I believed if he couldn’t finish his packing, he wouldn’t be able to leave for another business trip, and I wouldn’t have to miss him.
This morning, though, I was being invited to go with him. It was a special opportunity for some daddy-daughter bonding time, something that wasn’t always on offer. I desperately wanted to go, to enjoy the chance to ride in our big Dodge Maxivan (beige, because it wouldn’t show the dirt as easily), and visit exciting destinations, like the post office or the butcher or wherever the banal tasks he had planned might lead. The actual activity was never the point, it was the chance to spent uninterrupted time with my dad. As the youngest of three children, that was not something I was often able to do.
Yet, on this particular occasion, I said, “No.”
I can’t say why. I’m not even sure I knew at the time. All I can express was a deep certainty I was not meant to accept; I should not enjoy the little excursion as I truly wanted.
He asked me more than once, of this I am almost certain. I suspect it was the expression of open longing on my face. I’ve never been very good at hiding my emotions from those who take the time to look. Even as he repeated the invite, I sensed the answer I needed to give was the one I already had.
I’m not sure how old I was in this memory. It seems as though I couldn’t have been more than a preschooler, yet the living room I remember as the setting for our brief conversation was of the house we moved into when I was nine years old. Memories fade and change over time, so I am aware one or the other of these impressions didn’t quite play out as it seems in my head.
After he’d asked again, my dad made some comment to me, along the lines of, “If you’re sure,” and headed out the door to climb into the van on his own. I kept vigil from the front window. I may even have pressed my nose against the glass, watching him walk away, wishing I could be walking beside him.
I have wondered for years how I might best interpret this particular scene, especially my unfortunate belief that I should deny myself the pleasure of his company. I’m not sure exactly what led me to this conclusion that day, but I know it was a common theme throughout my childhood. Even as an adult, I battle a fear that, because I want something so much, I shouldn’t have it.
I suspect a part of the answer comes from my misunderstanding of the things taught in Sunday School. Throughout my childhood, we were part of a fundamentalist Evangelical branch of Christian tradition. My dad even stuck a clever bit of wordplay to the back of that beige van: letter stickers spelling out EVANGEL (with the V-A-N in a brightly contrasting red). “Evangel” is a churchy word used for someone who shows and tells the story of Christ.
We were taught to love God with our whole hearts, our entire minds, and our full souls (see Matthew 22:34-40). Anything that might come between God and me was to be considered an idol and eradicated posthaste. I was to lay myself on the altar, offering my body as a living sacrifice caring nothing for what was to become of me, but to do God’s will (see Romans 12:1-2). Anything I may want was not only of secondary importance, but very likely in opposition to my own chance to be made holy.
No.
Absolutely not.
That is twisted and evil and wrong.
I grew up second guessing everything I ever wanted. I wholeheartedly believed that God would keep me from the deepest desires of my heart, because it would be good for me. When I stumbled upon verses like Psalm 37:4, “Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart” (NIV), I understood the “delight” part to mean I was only to have pleasure in doing good and godly things like reading the Bible or attending church or serving the poor. And when I could do that, God would change my heart, so that I would only desire to do more good things like that. The natural desires in my heart, those for love and belonging and fun, those were never meant to be mine.
My dad and I have long had a complicated relationship. His misunderstanding of God and love obviously influenced my own. The night before my mom died, after coming home from the hospital, I lay in bed and said a prayer. I told God if Mom had to die in order for my relationship with my dad to improve, I believed God knew better than I what was needed.
As I look back on that night now, I cry for the confused and hurting teen who was only trying to make sense as best she could of the crazy she saw in the world and found it weirdly comforting that a divine being would find such a tragic exchange necessary or satisfactory.
Yet, in the almost 29 years since that night, my dad and I have both grown and changed. Today, we do have a much better relationship than we did then. I don’t believe my mom’s death was required to make that happen, but it certainly changed the dynamic, for better or for worse.
When I was in high school, maybe 16 or 17 years old, I told my dad I wanted to be a linguist when I grew up, to learn and study lots of languages. He laughed. I don’t know what he was thinking, but at the time I only understood that he found my life goals laughable. Last month, he sent me an email that included this line, “The intellectual, emotional, and spiritual maturity you displayed is simply amazing. I’m so very proud of you!” We’ve come a long way over the last three decades.
Today, my dad turns 83. Next month, the kids and I are moving to the desert southwest. It will be the first time we’ve lived in the same state in almost 20 years. When he had first moved, I remember thinking that our relationship was improved greatly by the 1,500 miles that separated us. Now, I am voluntarily moving just 30 miles away, and I’m excited we’ll be so close.
Over the seasons of my life I’ve learned many terrible and wonderful lessons from my father. But as I look back over the last 45 years, as best I can remember them, the most important thing I have learned from my dad is that we all have the capacity to change. We are formed and grounded by the beliefs under which we were raised, but it is our job, each of us as individuals, to determine the truth of any such claims for ourselves. Sometimes that means dropping a long-held and cherished doctrine. Sometimes that means embracing it with greater fervor. But never does it mean we are stuck with only what we knew as children.
Happy birthday, Dad! I’m so glad you were born and that I’m your kid. Not everything you’ve passed down to me has been beneficial, yet the greatest example you are providing offers me hope that I, too, can continue to grow, to develop, to mature even when I’m old. Thanks for being my dad. I love you.
Before There Is a Word 