I thought about sharing the following story in the third person - you know, change the names to protect the innocent and all that, but I decided I might as well tell it like it is.
It's a true story of love and restoration.
I grew up as the middle child of two hard-working parents who likewise raised their five children to be workers. Life at home wasn't real easy as my dad struggled with his moods, often exploding in anger, even upset to the point of tears which frightened me as a young girl. I learned early to be as busy as possible, working around the house to deflect any possible outburst of rage.
One Saturday (which was our official chore day), I decided to clean the TV room from top to bottom just to surprise my father, hoping for approval or at the very least, hoping to avoid any potential for another episode of anger. I was about nine years old and he was out working that day which gave me plenty of time to give myself to the task. I dusted and organized, vacuumed and straightened working all day until I felt quite pleased with my accomplishment. I had never worked so hard on one cleaning project before and was sure that my father would take one look and smile. I think that's all I was looking for - a smile. The assurance that for one day at least, our home would have peace.
Later on, my dad walked through the door of the house after a hard day, quiet and sort of grumpy but I was still hopeful. Eventually he came to check out how we did on our chores. In my excitement, I wanted him to come see the TV room first and so he obliged. I stood in the middle of the room, a smile on my face and my heart pounding, confident that I would witness a shift of approval on his countenance. I searched his face for the smile that would mean I did well, but instead I watched in horror as he took his forefinger and ran it across the top of the seven foot door frame. Oh no. I'm not sure I remembered him ever checking the top ledge of the door frame before but here he was... finding my failure almost as soon as he walked in the room. Upon finding the dust on his finger he said something like, "This place is a dump!" and my heart sank. Worse than that, something in my soul broke. I point to that occasion as a time when I stopped trying so hard to please my father. I still worked hard to stay out of trouble, but I didn't try so hard to win his approval, fearing the disappointment would be too much for me to handle.
I didn't think much about it again for years and years. I did what so many adults do with childhood memories - we tell ourselves to "Grow up and get over it." As adults we understand that our parents are imperfect and that everyone has issues. We dismiss the pains from memories, because it makes no sense to dredge up the past. It's better to forgive and forget - if possible. But somewhere around the age of thirty or so, this memory came back to me and strangely enough, it still stung.
I'm not really sure why I chose to bring it up to my father one day shortly after my thirtieth birthday. Our family was in the midst of a crisis and somehow I decided it was a good time to let him know that this was a difficult memory for me. We had a short, quiet conversation about it at their dinner table - just me, my mother and father. I warned my dad ahead of time that it might be difficult for him to hear and he said he felt a little scared about what I would say. When I told him my story (an event he hadn't remembered), he hung his head but didn't respond to me. Instead, my mother suddenly burst from her chair, rushed over to me in tears, and sobbed as she hugged me, apologizing for the pain. It sort of startled me, because I hadn't expected her to respond that way. I sort of expected my dad to respond that way, not that I wanted him to, it was just more typical for him to be the emotional one. Any way, there isn't any more to this part of the story. My father never really responded but I believed he generally felt badly about it and regretted the pain that experience caused me. And that was the end of that...
***
In the 18 years since that time (and almost 40 years since the day I cleaned that room), I have found a great deal of healing from all sorts of past painful memories, including this particular one. The Holy Spirit has graciously restored my heart and revealed the love of my Heavenly Father. He has walked me through forgiveness and releasing people who have hurt me. I look back to that day in the TV room, and I'm glad to say that my heart doesn't sink any more. I know my Heavenly Father smiles when He sees me. He's pleased, not because of my performance, but simply because I'm His little girl and because of that, I can know peace in my heart no matter what the circumstance. As a young girl, I wanted peace in my home - my Father brought peace to my heart. I will forever be grateful for His love that opened my eyes and healed my heart.
***
God is Good. So much better than we think.
My father is 78 years old. A few weeks ago, my husband and I went to my parents' home for a visit. While we were sitting in their living room and out of the blue, my father said to me, "Oh by the way, I've wanted to tell you something." I respond, "OK". He said, "I wanted to let you know that I'm sorry." I was puzzled. "Sorry? For what?" (I never heard my father verbalize an apology to anyone before this.)
"Do you remember about twenty years ago when you told me about the day when you were young and had cleaned the TV room and I found fault with your attempt, and hurt you?"
I was in shock. Wow. He remembered that? "Um...yes, I remember that."
"Yes, well I'm sorry. That was wrong of me - I should not have done that."
My mother wanted to quickly add that my father grew up never knowing he was loved and that it was because of his own brokeness he responded the way he did when I was a child. (It's like my mom to want to "fix" things. :)
My dad responded to her, "Yes, that may be true. But - it's no excuse. A Papa should never respond like that."
Papa. Did he just say, "Papa?"
What happened during and after the moment I heard that apology is difficult to describe. Do you know that sensation which happens when you drink down Nyquil? The liquid medication goes down your esophogus and into your stomach slowly and you sense the warmth of it sliding down , helping you feel better even upon contact. That's how it was when I heard my father apologize. Tangible healing flowed warmly down into my soul, spreading all over and touching deep areas of broken relationship and suddenly this man that terrified me all my life, became my Papa - my hero. He wasn't overly emotional when he apologized eaither, which was good, since I viewed his emotional-ness as an awkward weakness. His apology came from a place of strength, and yet he was obviously making himself incredibly vulnerable. I can't tell you how much it means that at the age of 48, I was given a "Papa". God didn't have to do that - but He did.
I am continually astounded by the measure of My Father's grace to go beyond all expectation and to meet my deepest needs - even those I didn't know I had.
Thank you for my Papa, Father. I love you both so very much.
