When an Estrangement becomes Permanent: Losing a Parent

As I was looking for a special frame to put your photo in, I kept finding these cute ones that said “#1 Dad” and “World’s Best Dad”. I couldn’t bring myself to buy one. My stepmother, whom I’d never met until your funeral, brought a recent picture of you just to give to me. You’re on your Harley Davidson sporting a long, white beard that I’d never seen you wear. You look happy, and that’s how I want to remember you – even if the man staring back at me is much older than the last one I saw face to face. 
 

I’ve noticed that oftentimes when someone loses a parent, they talk about how great they were and how greatly they will be missed – even if everyone else knows they weren’t even all that close. I can’t bring myself to do that, either. I’m not going to say you were a good Daddy. You weren’t. And I’m allowed to mourn a relationship that never really was.

A lot of things transpired that no one really knows about. This is not the time or the place to talk about the specific reasons why we were estranged. But we were. And honestly, not a day has gone by, before or after your death that I haven’t thought of you.

Sadly, wisdom does not set in before wrinkles do. I have quite a few for 27, and I’ve realized that I’ve just recently started gaining maturity and maybe a little wisdom. I have been “coming into myself” for a couple years, and part of me wishes that I had made it to the point that I reached back out to you. Part of me wishes you were here to see it. What I’ve become, what I’m becoming. And how much I look like my Momma, but have your nose.

You know, Dad, being cremated is so much different than being buried in a casket. At least in the casket you know they are all in there. And you get one final look at the person you loved. I can understand and respect your wishes, but everything now about your being, it seems, is reduced down to that box. Your piercing blue eyes. Your sparse spiky hair. Your aged tan skin. Your open, half-smile. Nothing of it left but ashes.

On the other hand, with it is all the discord. All the hateful words, all the misunderstandings, the differing perspectives that we could never reconcile. The ill will I had in my heart for you, at one point in time. And somehow, even my broken heart that I never really had a Daddy-daughter relationship with you. All of it burned down to ashes that I’ll keep a memory of but never again hold in my hands or my heart.

I’m not so sure that I’ll ever completely get over the regret that I didn’t try harder. I always put off making another phone call, thinking I’d have more time to talk to you again. Waiting for the kids to get just a little bit older. Making half-hearted reasons why I shouldn’t try again. Reminding myself of why I was right and making myself feel a little more justified. I’m sorry for my pride. I will say that I thought I was making the right decision, and now I just don’t know.

All that being said, I’ll circle back to say this – you weren’t really a good Daddy. But what you were, I’ve learned, was something so much greater than just what a good dad is. You were a new creation. Your soul was saved by a mighty God. His grace runs so much deeper than any bitterness my heart can hold; and truthfully, there’s not even much of that left. I can rest in knowing that you became complete in Him. And I have hope that one day we will see each other as God intended, without the issues of sin or pride or this earth getting in the way.

It’s odd Dad, but with your death I regained relationships with people I hadn’t seen since before we parted ways. I do not mean that disrespectfully, but it’s like God closed one door while he opened a dozen others. I intend to make the most of this and allow myself and my children the family bond that we have all been craving. Messy endings, but new beginnings. And I thank you.

The grief comes in the quiet moments. After everyone is gone and thinks I’m okay. When they think I should be okay. I’m not quite sure if it’s because I’m afraid to completely break down, or if it truly is the grace of God getting me through this, but I haven’t bawled yet. I’ve cried some quiet tears, and felt the ache in my heart. I do know that there is a peace now, that you are in Heaven and that it does not beseech me to dwell on either of our mistakes. But every now and then I do feel a sting. I’m sure I’m not finished grieving, and with the complicated nature of our relationship I feel as though it may take a while. I get so tired of people assuming that I'm okay because "but you and your dad weren't close, right?" Hurts my feelings, really. But what I do know is that everything is going to be okay, and that I have learned so very much through the experience of losing you, Dad. My life will not be the same and hopefully the lives of everyone else I encounter won’t be, either. Until I see you again – Melissa.