But this year was different.

    I found this neat cherry wood jewelry box (manly, yes, but I liked it too) on the internet. One could choose from ten poems for Dad, with the requisite sappy and silly rhyming verses you’d find on the 99 cent card rack.

    But I wanted to be honest and true.

    So I decided to write my own.

    Now my poetry days had waned when I was about 13; I had moved on to long, breathless essays and autobiographical fiction, because, of course, my own story was fascinating. Tongue firmly planted, guys.

    But I was feeling brave, and what I had to say was very important. And so I wrote:

A Father’s Love
You are my dad, and Joey’s grampa.
You made all the bad monsters go away,
You bought me little trinkets to decorate my arms
You put your arms around me
And you showed me how to ski.

We’ve often had fun times,
Going to the beach, the islands,
Looking at loons, watching waves at our favorite beach.
You gave me words of wisdom,
Words of love and encouragement.
You are my dad.

Like God’s love, which forgives everything,
Like God, who tells me He delights in me,
You are my dad.
And I thank God for you.

    I waited for days (the miracle of the USPS) and finally the package arrived. It was beautiful, and there were my words of love, beautifully engraved into the wood.

    My 16 year old son and I went to Dad’s so I could deliver his gift in person. Dad opened his gift and turned it over gently in his hands. Now, Dad is not a reader (and ALWAYS asks me how to spell stuff), but he began to read aloud. He had to stop when he finished the first sentence. “You read it,” he said, grabbing a tissue.

    I at least got to the SECOND sentence before I started choking on the words. Tried to hand it off to my 16 year old. For some reason he was afraid to do so!

    And so, I finished. Dad was wiping his eyes and told me I should get a job with Hallmark cards. I told him no, that the words were only for him.

    And they were.

    Ten years ago I was in therapy and had “memories” of some awful stuff in my past. I was depressed and suicidal. I decided (oh my) to cease all contact with my family because my life, it seemed, depended upon it.

    After a few years of crying, yelling, and beating couch pillows with a tennis racket, I realized that I needed to put all this behind me; my life really wasn’t getting better and all the self love in the world was not going to make it better. Tentatively, I was able to regain contact with Mom, who was particularly hurt by my actions. My Dad insisted that I was wrong about him, and I’d shake my head and wonder why I bothered to try. I just wanted him to tell me all so I could maybe forgive him. All HE wanted was for me to believe him.

...the words were only for him.

    My brothers accepted who I was back then and seamlessly allowed me back into their lives. Two sisters refused, because, they said, of the harm I had caused to our mother.

    My contacts with Mom and Dad were awkward, and now and then Dad would insist again that what I believed was wrong. Inside I was confused and angry and hurt. Why couldn’t they just admit what had happened? I would be free if only they would say it out loud!

    But this was not to be, and I was the one who was miserable. And Dad and Mom weren’t too happy either.

    It came to a head in my heart when I realized that I would not be able to live fully until I forgave whatever did or didn’t happen.

    And so, I tried to WILL this to happen. I must forgive, I must forgive, but always, failure. The hurt and anger and the lack of joy in my life remained.

    As always with any surrender, there is first a battle. I fought for my right to be angry, and I fought to forgive in spite of this.

    As always with any surrender, the battle drove me to my knees. Literally.

    I began to pray, with gritted teeth, for God to help me to forgive. I BEGGED. And God gradually soothed the hurt, and assuaged my anger.

    This improved my relationships greatly, with Mom and Dad, and even with others. And God brought to light that much of what I remembered was false. I had a therapist who had suffered from such abuses and perhaps was overzealous in “helping” me. Yes, I was a sick puppy.

    Even in light of this I reserved a grain of doubt, for how could I have been such a mess? SOMEthing happened back there! What, what? But in time it became less important to know.

    And my begging for forgiveness gave me yet another gift.

    A willingness to consider letting Jesus into my heart.

    Now where that came from, I don’t know. One of my “memories” was of a man (not Dad), who dressed like Jesus, and molested me and some other children. I knew it WASN’T Jesus, but I still was unable to make that leap of faith.

    I was afraid to pray for God’s help in this matter. I knew from experience that God answered prayer, always. Maybe not always the way that I wanted, but in the way that was best.

    “God,” I prayed, I know that you want me to let Jesus into my heart and let Him be the ruler of my life. But I can’t! YOU are going to have to do it! YOU! YOU!” I cried helpless tears of anger and fear.

    And then gently I was led. To people. To a church. To a Christian music station. And finally, to Jesus.

    And that is why, when I finished reading my poem to Dad, I stood up, walked over, and we held each other gently as we cried sweet tears.

Like God’s love, which forgives everything.
Like God, who tells me He delights in me,
You are my Dad,
And I thank God for you.