06/17/2023

Today’s blog

Lynn Murphy Mark

Abba

This word appears in the New Testament three times. My dictionary app defines it as follows: “An Aramaic word for father, used by Jesus and Paul to address God in a relation of personal intimacy.” It is also a title of reverence granted to patriarchs in some Middle Eastern and African Christian churches. Tomorrow, however, we will hear the word “Father” mostly to represent the men in our lives who have served as dads and step-dads and father figures.

Some time ago Anne Lamott wrote a piece on the difficult meaning of Mother’s Day for some people. I feel the same way about Father’s Day. In my memory bank I remember some good times, in particular those Saturdays when we rode horses together, or the occasional year when we put in a garden – a throwback to his youth spent in a farming family. But I never knew my dad as anything but an alcoholic who never missed a day of work. In other words, I never knew my father when he was sober. By the time he quit drinking it was literally because his dementia made him forget how to drink.

I was 23 when he died and he had not been able to communicate for 5 years before his death. This unfolded while I was away at college and nursing school and it fell to my mother to be his caregiver. They spent a lot of time at VA hospitals trying to figure out what was happening to his brain. He was a once brilliant engineer who gradually lost his ability to express any rational thoughts and eventually became totally mute. He was the youngest of seven siblings and was the first to die at the young age of 63.

I am conflicted by the words, “father figure”. Growing up there were three family friends that I addressed as “Uncle”. Two worked with my dad at General Motors, Uncle George and Uncle Andy, and one was our family physician, Uncle Charlie. My image of a father figure is really a combination of memories of my dad and these three men who I loved and trusted. Uncle Andy and his wife could not have children so I was sort of a substitute for a child they would never have. Uncle George had two sons that I played with. Uncle Charlie was the kindest doctor I have ever met and when I had appendicitis he was the only person I would have allowed to perform my appendectomy. And, come to think of it, my tonsillectomy. 

This weekend I have seen lots of posts on Facebook with pictures of dads who are revered and loved. I don’t have any pictures of me and my dad together except for one when I was two or so and we were sitting next to a Christmas tree. That picture is buried in a box in my closet. On the rare occasion when I see it I can tell that he was well on his way to being pretty drunk. 

It does my heart good to see pictures and hear stories about beloved dads. And in some place within, I know that my dad loved me as much as he was capable of. I once had a psychic reading done in which my dad appeared prominently. The reader knew nothing of my history, but she told me that there was a strong presence of my father. The message from him was that he was sorry for the gaps in our relationship and the pain he caused. Then she said something that struck me as true – the words she was hearing said he would not change anything about my childhood because it had made me the strong woman I am today. 

On this Father’s Day weekend I realize that part of being a dad is helping your children grow to be strong, capable people. I can honestly say that my dad did that for me.