I wept for my Father

The first time I wept for my father was when he died. He died with only his wife and two of his three sons by his side and his older sister. There was no one else in his life. No funeral, no memorial was held. The Chaplin of the local Armed Forces base, the one he retired out of, came and led us in a short prayer for him.

        I wept of what had become of his life. In the end, he was alone. Those who gathered to witness his passing had done so mostly out of obligation.

Most of my life the relationship with my father has been as complicated as it was strained. As a young child I remember being almost ecstatic when he came home from work. Then, life changed. The structure of the army, that had kept him functional, had been replaced with the anesthetic of alcohol. It did not take long for him to deteriorate into the mayhem of alcoholism. By the time I was seven I knew we were in trouble.

        My father has been a target of my derision and pity for most of my life. My father was not a passive participant in this process. There were glimpses of compassion, I realized he was a damaged soul. This was a result of coming terms with my own addiction to alcohol and other drugs. I realized that if I did not choose that life, perhaps my father had not chosen it either. Yet, I knew my life had been irrevocably altered through my experiences with him. I resented him for the hardships that had become more than visitors in my life.

Most recently, I wept on Remembrance Day. To say my father survived the Second World War would use a broad definition of ‘survive’. He had been in a vehicular accident and had been left for dead. It was only when the body recovery unit came to collect him that it was realized that he was still alive. He had suffered a massive brain injury. What other traumas he experienced I have no idea. The man that came home was not the same man that went to fight. Of course, that was before my time. I never knew either man. 

       He did talk of one incident. Of a young boy who had discovered a carelessly overlooked landmine as a training facility had been closed. The young boy had died playing with it. It has been only recently that I have appreciated that when he came to talk of the traumas that he would have experienced, this incident with the boy was first and foremost. I am sure there was so much else. 

        Much of my resentment with my father arose out of who he had become. Slowly, he deteriorated into a bitter, angry, and violent man. This overshadowed the times he did show up in my life to make a contribution. What was remarkable about him, was that despite however he might have been a mess at any given time, he pulled his act together whenever a young child was in the room. Perhaps it was the memories of when life was not so difficult for him. 

        Perhaps it is age. Perhaps it is understanding that I have less sunsets to enjoy. But I grieve not for the loss of my father, but for the loss he would have experienced. As awful as parts of my life may have seemed, it must have been worse for him.

        Today I prayed for him. I am not sure if it does anything. Does it bring comfort to his soul? I don't know. In the first letter to the Corinthians, Paul writes of being ‘baptized for the dead.' Perhaps my prayer has been a salve to his soul, maybe to my soul. Another step forward as I trudge the road of recovery, restoration, and righteousness.