Majestic Moments #3: Grappling with Childhood

I grew up in a dysfunctional family … and so did you. ALL families are dysfunctional because ALL parents are imperfect people. They try raising their children the best they know how, but as sinners, they fall short so many times in so many ways.

As an adult I thought I grew up in a pretty normal home. My father was a tool-and-die maker and my mother was a stay-at-home mom. My dad coached my Little League team; my mom was my Cub Scout leader. To the outside world our family was like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting.

The truth is that things were very different behind closed doors. I walked around on egg shells because my dad had a hair-trigger temper. Mom, on the other hand, played the peacemaker serving as the buffer between my dad’s rage and her fear of conflict. At times I cowered in fear; at other moments I basked in the glow of their parental affection. When I was a junior in high school the wheels started coming off the train. I’ll spare you the details out of respect for my late parents. Let me just say that things were pretty bad.

One night, when I was 35 years old, our couple’s small group was sharing about our childhoods. As I told them about my home I had one of those “aha” moments. I suddenly blurted out, “Wow. I think I grew up in a dysfunctional home!” One of my friends responded, “No s_ _ _, Sherlock.” It was the first time I allowed myself to say what I had known all along – my growing up years were really messed up.

From the age 22 to 49 I barely had contact with my parents. I’d call them on the holidays and pass the phone off to my wife as soon as possible. Twice our family stayed with them in Florida primarily because they lived close to Disney World. I was so angry with them I could’ve spit nails. Every problem I faced, every setback I encountered, I blamed on them.

At age 40 I started to see a counselor to grapple with the emotional wounds from the first half of my life. It stirred up many unpleasant memories, but it also served as a release valve for the pent-up anger I felt towards my parents.

Once my counselor asked, “What was your relationship like with your father?” I started in on my laundry list of grievances. Then she asked, “What was your father’s relationship like with HIS father?” Once again I had an “aha” moment. My dad didn’t grow up in a nurturing home; in fact, some of his childhood experiences were quite traumatic. Suddenly I realized that my father’s dad hadn’t been a very good parent. Given the circumstances, my dad had done a pretty good job.

I decided to write a letter to my father asking him to forgive me for neglecting our relationship. I confessed that I was an ungrateful child who didn’t appreciate the sacrifices he had made on my behalf. I told my counselor that I would send the letter as soon as possible. The counselor wisely suggested I read the letter to my dad face-to-face. This approach would offer the best chance for true reconciliation. I promised I would read it to him the next time I went to Florida.

On December 6, 1999 I received a call from my brother who lived near my parents. My dad had died of a massive heart attack at age 70. I was devastated. When my mom came to the phone I asked her to promise me that the mortician wouldn’t cremate the body until I had a chance to see it.

When I arrived for the memorial service, my mom and I drove to the funeral home to view my dad’s body. I took out the letter and read it to my dad’s corpse with my mom listening to every word. When I finished, through many tears, my mom and I reconciled. The anger I had felt towards both my parents was now gone. Now I regret that I never really had a chance to get to know my dad as an adult.

I’m convinced that God whispered to me to tell my mom to hold off on the cremation. That scene in the undertaker’s viewing room was a majestic moment – one that I will treasure forever. Dad, I can’t wait to see you again in heaven.

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