Father goodbyes...

make today's a hurdle

My father and I have had a distant or maybe hovering relationship.  It has been a challenging relationship to feel, think through, and come to terms with.  I love him deeply, but at times have realized that love doesn't always come in shinny, joyful, or tender ways.  I have at times believed that if I had not been born he would have lived his dreams of playing professional basketball in Mexico.  Why I have these thoughts are possibly a reflection of my love for him, but I know he wouldn't trade me for that dream. I felt like he might have had the time and concentration to practice, train, and study the game more if I wasn't in the equation.  It is a hard story to tell myself.  It is hard to undo the feeling that I am an accident.  It is partly the truth.  I had to share my dad in space described as loneliness. 

My childhood has some memories of hard good byes with my dad.  I am from a divorced family and I didn't get to spend a lot of time with my dad as a child.  The reasons are probably reasonable but regardless unfortunate.  It was always a tragically sad event when I had a short visit with my dad and then had to say goodbye.  I can still remember he smelled of cologne.  I remember his aviator glasses and tight fitting T-shirts.  I would sometimes kiss is smooth shaven, stern, strong and warm jaw.  My dad was a hero to me.  I would hug my dad as tight as I could every time he'd pick me up for a visit.  I loved hugging him.  I would follow his footsteps literally trying to mimic his gate.  There are so many of these memories.

I anticipated visits with my dad.  He would often take me to his practices.  This is where I learned to love the smell of the gym.  I loved the sound of the leather slapping hands, the rip of net, the bounce off the hardwood, and the screech of sneakers gripping the floor.  I had to visit my dad, when the typical story includes a dad day in and day out.  Well not my story.  It doesn't sound or seem right, and I am barely now trying to reconcile the tragedy of having to experience the longing for my father at a young age and without explanation.  Longing leaves the spirit vulnerable to the shock of goodbye.

For many years I dealt with the pain of these goodbyes with resentment and confusion.  It was difficult because a big part of me admired, longed for, and desired my dad.  I grew up watching my dad workout.  I have my ethic from seeing this.  I remember how he would sweat, zone out, and breathe each breath with agony.  I loved it.  I knew that it meant progress and it taught me that not all pain was bitter. I learned to be a hustler, he never took things lightly and he expected the same from me.  I only could watch, but really wanted to participate.  These are the parts of my dad that built my admiration.  These interests keep me appreciating my father, despite learning reasons for my dads absence.

Along with these memories are the painful memories of weekends that came to an end.  When I was a little boy, I had to say goodbye on a Sunday evening.  It was one of the first times I remember feeling that huge knot that swells in the throat when withholding a good cry.  I don't know why but I always felt ashamed for crying when I had to say goodbye.  I remember being overwhelmed by that knot in my throat as we turned onto my mom's street, and wondering why life was the way it was.  In my mind nobody else had to visit their dad.  I remember the tears being so strong that I would lose my breathe and have the hick ups for hours afterwards.  I would cry myself to sleep, head berried in my pillow.  I am remembering this pain now, maybe cherishing it for what it can teach me about saying goodbye today.

In reflecting on why it is so difficult for me to say goodbye today, I recalled the memory of my dad.  I have never really shared this pain nor given it the focus I have here.  I recalled crying together, me maybe 7 years old, him young and strong, both stretching out biter moments before that dreaded farewell, in my mom's gravel driveway.  Today this memory flooded my chest with sadness and caused me to ball like if I were still sitting meekly in his lap.  Why do I have to always say good bye?  I longed for my dad always.  The pain I am feeling right now is tiring.  I feel like a boy, but wiping my tears from my beard reminds me that so much time has passed, years, decades, since those south valley good byes and I still have not overcome the sadness felt then.  

So several weeks ago, on the morning I am having these thoughts about my fatherly goodbyes, coincidentally, i see my dad randomly on the freeway.  What are the chances?  Driving into work, I looked up ahead on the interstate and saw a little green Toyota truck that looks like my dad's.  In a prayerful like way I said, "I love you dad".  As I got closer to my exit, I came up on that truck and it was my dad.  I honked and there he was looking as handsome as i remember.  He gave me the stoic and typical one arm up, hand open, salute, no smile, one glance, and off our separate ways.  We are both men now, yet I feel the boyish desire to be held and told things are going to be alright.  I am still processing the pain, and by the grace of God I get a chance to work with my dad.  I get to be closer to him.  I'll be interning at his school this spring.

This semester for my group counseling internship I will be facilitating men's groups at the school he is working. I have had a spectrum of attitudes towards my dad, all loving but not all have been peaceful.  I look at this opportunity as a chance for me to see his gold.  I get to see him passionate, again.  I get to try and mimic his gate, again.  All those years of watching other kids with their dads and wishing I had mine, are being rewarded by having the opportunity to be next to him in the service trenches.  I love him.  I have failed him.  He has failed me.  We are a lot alike and we have grown so different.  All of this has helped me understand what it means to feel like a boy, be in a mans body, but be in a father's role.  

My dad is not openly a sentimental person and does not publicly express his love, but when he is in a trusted place he lets me know how much I mean to him.  It reminds me today that the hurt caused by a goodbye is not a bad thing but evidence of strong love cleaved.  I can also trust that it led to new hellos and deeper understandings of sadness.  I am proud to remember how much it hurts to say good bye to him.  It makes this new hello so much more meaningful.  He has loved me in his own way and often from a distance, not necessarily how we would prefer, but the way it is.  I am cherishing how life taught us both the sadness of letting go.