Forgiving My Worthless Father

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Take it away, Leslie. I never called my father worthless. That was his own word for himself. But in a way, he was right. I was on the phone with him.

He had had a stroke. I told him I was flying down to see him from my home in Alaska to a rehab facility in Florida. I'll be seeing you in about three weeks, I said to him. I spoke loudly and tried to make my voice cheerful to infuse some kind of joy into his life. And that's what he said. I'm not worth it.

Of course you're worth it, I answered back instantly. But you know, in some ways, he wasn't wrong. In the whole human balances of justice and fairness, he hadn't done anything to deserve this kind of sacrifice and attention from his children. He couldn't or wouldn't hold a job, which left us deeply impoverished and ashamed throughout our childhood. Our food was sparse. Our homemade clothes were worn out.

We got one pair of shoes a year, all that. But even more than that, he didn't seem to be able to form relationships. And he treated us as children as though we were invisible. And soon after, we grew up and left our house. My parents divorced. He moved to Florida to live by himself thousands of miles from all of us.

And I was glad. Over the next 30 years, I saw my father maybe three times. And it was always me traveling thousands of miles to see him. He would never have come to see me.

And every time I flew down, I went needy and hopeful. But he would see me, express interest in me, show some kind of affirmation. But it never came. He would barely speak to me. And when he did, sometimes he just ridiculed my faith. He claimed to be an atheist. The last time I saw him, I decided, I'm done.

I'm never going back. But then he had a stroke. He was maybe 84 then. And in spite of my vow, I did go back. I flew down from Kodiak to be with him, just the two of us. He was in a rehab facility by then.

So I flew into Orlando, rented a car, drove to the facility, my stomach fluttering, wondering who I would find, what would be left. The last time I saw him, he had all his faculties. Now he walked painfully slowly with a walker. But he was upright and cogent, even though he never said very much. But that was normal. And I knew something was wrong with him, even as a child.

But it took me many years to find the name for his detachment, his inability to love others, even his own children. This day, I walked through the automatic doors of the rehab facility. I stopped at the front desk, found his room number, and I started down the hallway so slowly, just inching down, dreading what was next. I found his room. Then I peered around the doorway.

It was a room for two. There was one figure I could see lying curled on the bed. And then through a half-open curtain, I could see another man in a wheelchair. So I walked in, trembling. It was my father on the bed. He was lying on his side, curled knees to chest. He was wearing shorts. His jaw hung open. I could see that all his teeth were gone now. It was much thinner than the last time I saw him, but his legs were still solid and muscular. But what do I do?

What do I know about this, visiting the sick, the elderly, a father? I felt like I was supposed to know, but I didn't. He was sleeping. I had come 5,000 miles, and my time was short. I didn't want to wait. I inched closer to the bed, deciding then I would wake him if I could. So I touched his shoulder through his thin shirt and watched his face. I held my fingers there for a moment, and he blinked. Then his eyes opened.

He was looking directly at me without moving his head. And when he saw me, his eyes filled with tears. And still looking right at me, he began to weep. His whole body shuddering as he sobbed, his head still lying on his hands. I froze. I'd never seen my father weep, or even teary or sad.

He seldom showed any emotion. I felt torn in half. My own face crumbled.

And I kept my hand on his shoulder to comfort his racking body. And there we were, both shaking in silent sobs. I knew he couldn't speak or name all the sorrows that shook him, but it seemed to me that we wept for his long, sad life, for his breaking body, his tangled mind, and a tongue that was now nearly stilled. And I cried, but I had not seen him sooner. I cried for 30 years of absence from his life.

We were crying for all that was lost to us both. And even in that moment, I realized the stroke had rendered him more fully human than I'd ever seen him. And in that moment, I saw my father through eyes of mercy and kindness.

And I was sad as well. Did it really take a stroke to render him worthy of compassion? The next day, I was gently pushing his wheelchair down the hall. I shared meals with him, watched TV with him in his room, read to him. And through all of that, I couldn't shake the injustice and inequity of it that every gift and kindness I gave to him, he had never shown to me. But something else was stronger, a desire to forgive. I could see him through eyes of compassion now rather than through my own needs as a daughter. A few days later, I had to leave and return home.

But after that visit, I began to pray for him, to call him regularly, and to send him letters and even gifts. We often think that the cost of forgiving is too high, but we don't consider the cost of not forgiving. I found relief in releasing his debts against me, especially as I realized that my father could not pay what he owed me.

Nor can many parents. You can't shake money or love out of someone who is bankrupt themselves. And I found the yoke of forgiveness was lighter than the yoke of hurt. And you know what happened?

That love came back. One day, he called me amazing. On one of my birthdays, he called me.

When I came to visit, he didn't want me to leave. Forgiving my father changed me. And one forgiveness has led to others and to my own apologies to those I know I have hurt.

And all of this is moving me toward the person I want to be. My father was touched as well. And in the last two years of his life, my worthless father was surrounded and blessed by the very ones he had harmed. And I believe that he felt loved.

Perhaps for the first time even. I know we cannot heal all the broken families of the world, but we can begin here with ourselves and our own families. With God's forgiveness and love, anything is possible. The story of Leslie Leland Fields and her father.

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