Bury the Past to Stay Alive

If I walk into his hospital room will sunshine beams stream through the vertical blinds of the institutional window near his bedside? Will harmonious music fill the pensive air as I’m genuinely embraced by my dad? Will he hug me while whispering, “I’m sorry honey.” Will tears stream down our faces cleansing years of meanness and ugliness from our hearts? Will his hand gently brush away these tears from my cheeks as he tells me I am his little princess after all and that he has always loved me?

What daughter wouldn’t want this chance for repair? Why would I delay visiting my dad in the hospital? My willing spirit asked what if this is the last opportunity? Isn’t the death bed where healing takes place? Maybe he would show remorse or regret or say he’s sorry. Maybe he would say he’s missed his kids and loves us or maybe he would just be glad we came. It’s possible he would show a small effort to impart a father’s blessing that would help repair and move us forward in life. Maybe he would get emotional in a tender sort of way. At least squeak out something to show he cared.

But then my willing spirit paused as my protective guard asked, why would I go at all, let alone run to his bedside? Do I have the resiliency left in my reservoir to be dismissed again? (end of excerpt in Wounded Song)

June of 1986 was the last time I had talked to my dad. Well…let’s be clear, he dismissed me and my effort.

January 1992 I learned my dad was in the hospital and wondered if I had the strength to visit.

July 1992 my aunt called, “Are you okay Tam? Is there something you forgot to tell me?”

I assured her I was okay and couldn’t think of a thing I forgot. I asked, “…did I miss an event or something?”

She said, “Um, I ran into your one of your aunts today. She told me your dad died.”

“He’s dead?”

“You mean you didn’t know?” (end of excerpt in Wounded Song)

He died March 17, 1992.

Burying a hurt from my past isn’t the same as stuffing it, forgetting about it and not dealing with it. Sharing isn’t stuffing. Digging deep, asking questions and sharing is how I heal and perhaps offer hope for someone who thinks they’re all alone in their crazy and hazy rhythm of emotions.

Restoration of my soul may not be happening as fast as I’d like it too, but what good healing does? I use to recount this story with venom and anger at my father’s rejection. Now, I can laugh. But don’t be fooled by the stoic chin up, for when I least expect it, a vignette, a food, a song, or what wasn’t, will wet those tears as fast as they come. Something so every day ordinary like preparing a meal and chopping garlic, is when the loss rises to the surface. I don’t have control over those things. But I have control over how long I stay stuck in it and whose voice I believe.

I can be sad and cry and hurt, but that doesn’t mean I’m not healing. It means I’m human. And I know I’m being restored because I don’t wallow as long as I use to!

Restoration is an ongoing dance with me and God. He pulls me in, I push him away. He guides me, I step on his feet. But we dance and that’s how I slowly heal.