Daddy Issues

Understanding The Father's Love

I began writing this post a week before Dad left this world. I have opened it and stared at this page countless times. Even though the post was already written in my heart, I haven’t been able to write about Dad in the past tense. I enjoyed reporting our daily conversations in the present tense. They were raw, up-close, personal.

But, sooner rather than later, I have to face facts.

Dad has gone.

When I was a child, Dad was the best thing since sliced bread. He was tall, strong, handsome and knowledgeable, everything a little girl could admire in her father. I remember skipping home from school, rushing in the front door and asking Dad about the meaning of a word I didn’t understand. He would use 4 or 5-syllable words in his explanation. The original word lost all importance, and I would come away with a wider vocabulary. This happened time and time again. Dad was a dictionary, a thesaurus and the font of all knowledge.

Even so, it wasn’t always a bed of roses.

So, grab yourself a cuppa, curl up in your favourite chair and join me as we take this journey into the past together.

---

I keep turning memories over in my head, like well-tilled soil. If you have read any of my previous posts, you will know that in 2003, I left sunny England behind and adopted Mexico as my culture. I still consider Mexico home. Two years ago, we were plucked from our Mexican home and deposited on the doorstep of my childhood, coming face-to-face with everything I had buried or filed into the folder of the forgotten. At first, I didn’t want to remember, but, over time, I have found comfort in revisiting the past, allowing the air to circulate in stuffy rooms, dusting off forgotten family relics and laying past issues firmly to rest. As I go about the house deciding what stays and what needs to go to the charity shop, I sense the Holy Spirit working away in the quiet pockets of my heart. He is showing me what to hold dear and what to release, what to bless with forgiveness and what to treasure.

How does this relate to Dad?

I am beginning to understand just how much my relationship journey with Dad reflects my faith journey.

---

Back to the beginning

If there is one word to describe my childhood, it would be wholesome. I have a stash of memories of being outdoors in the woods, stumbling through bracken, racing Jez to the top of Snowden and drinking from mountain streams. I remember stalking him through wisps of long grass, while we waited for Mum and Dad as they scoured the bush for some far-off minuscule bird in their telescope. Jez and I had to be quiet for those key moments, so we would wander off and play at a safe distance where we could make noise. Armed with imagination, adventure and the great outdoors, we were unstoppable.

There were beach days at West Wittering. It was and still is one of my favourite places in Britain, so much so that as a child, my great aspiration was to own a beach hut facing the sea. These brightly painted wooden huts seemed so magical to me. Most of the time, they were locked, but sometimes we would happen upon one that was open. I was amazed to see all the beach paraphernalia stuffed into such a compact space, along with a kettle, cups and picnic gear. I hadn’t expected them to have electricity. After peering inside, I informed Mum that I was going to buy one and live in it. I meant every word.

Even then, I loved being at the beach. There is something so wonderfully eccentric about British people at British beaches. We never know which way the wind is going to blow. We never know how long the sun is going to last, if it makes an appearance at all, but we certainly try our hardest to make the most of the summer days, even if they do a poor impression of summer. Everyone gets their swimming gear on, even if it is freezing. In the Seventies, windbreaks were all the thing, but by the time the Eighties graced into view, we had modernised. We were the proud owners of an inflatable dinghy. That was mine and Jez’s delight.

I grew up in the church, an Anglican church, to be precise. I remember the names and faces of all the families who were faithful members. I remember running through the hall while the adults ate cake and downed pints of tea. Dad’s faith was like him, gentlemanly, solid, steadfast and formal. Mum was the one who oozed warmth and raised her hands during worship. She was the only one in the church to do so. After many years of Anglican liturgy, the stifling nature of the services took its toll, and Mum needed to spread her wings, as well as her arms, and go somewhere more ‘happy-clappy.’ They moved to the Baptist church.

Conversations with Dad felt like being on the set of Downton Abbey. The last couple of years, I have loved our little bubble rooted firmly in the past. Aside from being well-spoken, he did everything with grace, poise and precision, but in his younger years, he was far-off, formal and intensely private.

Dad was intensely English. And when I say English, I mean from Victorian times.

I felt sure he and I came from different places. I felt sure he was born a century too late. I was tactile and liked to curl up on his lap, seeking closeness and comfort. He was caring and protective but not particularly demonstrative. Despite this, I knew I was the apple of his eye.

And then I “grew up.”

By the time Mum and Dad ventured into a ‘freer’ space for worship, Jez and I had moved out. My relationship with God had begun its nosedive. Jez’s had already exploded on impact. You see, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, but we got hit over the head by religion as children. We didn’t know anything about a relationship with God. I do remember sensing the Lord’s presence at times, but I also remember a lot of rules, too many words and no room for personal expression. It was the Eighties, and I had important things to think about, like whether I had enough hairspray to get me through the week. Or whether David Addison and Maddie Hayes were finally going to get together. I had a small black-and-white TV in my room. I no longer had to be in the lounge to watch what everyone else was watching. When I wanted ‘me time’, I would retreat to my room to watch Moonlighting, my hair wrapped up in a towel, and suddenly I was living in LA or New York in an apartment with a gaudy array of huge earrings and jackets with oversized shoulder pads.

MTV and Top of the Pops were the music options. If we wanted something a bit more edgy, Jools Holland did the trick. My bag was constantly stuffed with tapes that represented my eclectic music taste. Comedy was key with Harry ‘Loadsa Money’ Enfield, The Young Ones and Black Adder shaping my worldview. Not to mention the lyrics penned by Morrissey, Joy Division and the Sugar Cubes. This was my world. I was going places, nothing could stop me, except, perhaps, Dad. I thought he was holding me back by always giving me ‘no’ as an answer, but he was protecting me. He wanted to preserve my innocence. Dad’s agenda was protection over emancipation.

Does this remind you of anyone?

We have heard it said a thousand times: the Holy Spirit is a gentleman. He will never force himself upon anyone. He sits and waits. He points us back to Yeshua. In turn, Yeshua points us back to the Father. In my late teens and early twenties, my relationship with Dad went cold. He stopped speaking to me for some time. He did not approve of my lifestyle. If I look back, that is when God went quiet. I was angry at God for taking my brother. I was angry at Dad because his boundary felt like rejection. I was entitled, caught up in the wide expanse of self, and couldn’t see anything else. I dug my heels in, and so did he. Mum was caught in the middle.

I won’t go into detail. That’s between Dad and me, and it is now firmly stored in the past. I grew tired of myself and the place I was in. As I began to change, my relationship with Dad began to thaw. Family gatherings of just the three of us returned to laughter and delicious food. Visiting home for the weekend became safe again.

I’ve shared this photo before, but it is one of my favourite photos of Dad and me. I remember the moment it was taken as if it were yesterday. We were on one of our many family walks, probably going logging just before winter. It sums up Dad’s love for me. For many years, I was too blind to see it. While I ventured forth into potential risk, Dad sat behind, smiling and keeping a watchful, protective eye.

This is another favourite photo. I don’t know if this was taken in Wales or Devon, but I love the fact that he holds my hand so I won’t fall as we scramble over the rocks. He always encouraged me to push myself, but he would always be there to reach out a guiding hand. This is what Dads do. I realised that this is what the Father does. As I grew closer to my earthly father, I drew closer to my Heavenly Father. I no longer called him ‘God.’ I started calling him Abba.

Dad’s nature taught me many things. He taught me to be steadfast. He taught me how to care for others. His own father developed dementia in the last year of his life. He came to live with Mum and Dad and slept in Jez’s old bedroom. Jez’s bedroom then became Dad’s bedroom, and it is where I have cared for him these last two years. I followed his example. He taught me the virtue of not complaining. He might have taken it a little far, but complaining just wasn’t his style. Even in these past few months, he would complain about pain in his arm, and then after five minutes, he moved on. Let’s be honest, his existence was dreary at the end. He couldn’t do anything. Alzheimer’s ate him up, quashed all his cognitive ability and left him like a crumpled sheet of paper. Still no complaints. Dad was solid, steady and a behind-the-scenes type of man, who ate a lot of apples. I have since adopted the apple habit.

“A good name is better than fine perfume, and one’s day of death is better than his day of birth.”

Ecclesiastes 7:1

As I honour Dad’s memory and remember his life, I am reminded of the above verse. It’s something that has always caught my attention. For most believers, it instantly causes us to look to Jesus and his sacrifice, his death and resurrection, offering eternal life to all mankind. But I believe this verse also has a personal application for our loved ones who have gone before us. We don’t truly know how much someone means until they have gone. Death creates a distance that allows them to be fully seen and fully known. Their fullness comes into view. Even though Dad had been flayed in pieces before my eyes these past four years, I hadn’t forgotten who he was, and everything he means to me.

That’s all I can manage for right now.

Until next time,

Sally