As an adult, the only time I had a conversation, if you could call it that, with my father about the sexual abuse was during an early morning phone call. About a month after I told my mom that I was not going to allow my children to be around my dad, he called me. My phone rang one Saturday morning at 6AM. “Lori, this is your dad. I just wanted to say that all young girls provide men with opportunities and I am no different than any man. That's why I've accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior. Any sins I may have committed are in the past, they are gone. I suggest that you ask the good lord to forgive you for what you did to me.” That was it. He hung up. We never did have a real conversation, about anything, after that. Even when reaching out to him at the end of his life, it was apparent to me that I would never get the conversation with him that I'd imagined in my mind. But, I did get a great gift, a grace, the day I understood that conversation would never happen.
After not seeing my father for several years, I heard from my brother that he had a terminal illness and was not expected to live much longer. I was worried that if I didn't at least go and see him one more time, I might have regrets when he passed on. So, I made the drive to see him. I walked into his hospital room to see a man that I did not even recognize as my father. Instead of the tall, handsome man in my memory, I saw a small, shriveling, gray, and balding being that had had one of his lower legs amputated. The gasp that formed in my throat almost choked me. “Dad,” I finally managed to gasp. I felt like somehow something I had done or not done caused the state he was in. He acknowledged me by holding up his hand. As I got closer to the bed, I could not stop myself from crying, even though during the entire journey to this moment I told myself I would not cry when I saw him. I held his hand and he greeted me like we'd just seen each other a short while ago and I was here for a casual visit. He asked how the weather was, what kind of car I was driving, if I was working, if I'd gotten a hair cut. Things that made no sense in the context of the visit. When I was able to compose myself, I quit giving yes, no, or one word answers to his questions. When I quit answering his trite questions, he quit asking them. I wanted to blurt out that I was sorry for everything in our past, to say those things didn't matter, but I couldn't because it wasn't true. I realized I wanted to say those things to ease the tension, to make things more bearable for us in this moment, if that was possible. I also knew that was not what I'd come to do, to make him feel better. I also knew I had not come to make him feel worse, either. Finally, holding his hand I said, “Oh dad, there's so much we've never talked about.” As I spoke, he nodded his head and quietly agreed. He looked like he was thinking about what I was saying, perhaps even feeling a bit of sorrow or regret. He just kept nodding and saying, “yup, yup.” Finally, he let out a large sigh and said, “Yup, what are you making then? About $700 a week?”
I felt as if something inside of me physically snapped. It was like a moment of crystal clarity. I no longer had any hope of, or even any desire for, an apology or acknowledgement from him about our sordid history. In that split second when clarity came, I realized that I was the only one that could totally rid myself of the rope-like remnants of sexual abuse that so often seemed to intrude in my adult life. Even though I began sobbing, I felt a joy that was one of the most mystical, loving embraces I'd ever known. In just a few moments the tears stopped. The rest of the visit, much to my surprise, I was able to just sit with my father and feel a sort of compassionate empathy for him. On the drive home I was by myself in the car, but I'd never felt more in the presence of something, or someone, that exuded a love I'd never known.
My father did not die soon, as was expected. He lived several months, hospitalized, on dialysis, and needing frequent surgical procedures to control more gangrenous extremities or ulcerated intestines. I was able to go and visit him a few times during those last months. I never hoped for a deep, healing conversation and we never had one. We talked weather, sports, politics and a bit about relatives. After each visit, it felt as if there was reaffirmation that the gift of clarity during the first visit was, in fact a real and authentic gift, if not from him, from the Universe.
So, here's sending out a request to the Universe, again, that another moment of grace is in store. May we all be molded and formed in healthy and healing ways by the love and experiences that our lives have in them - even when we can not see or feel them.
Our true home is in the present moment.
To live in the present moment is a miracle.
The miracle is not to walk on water,
The miracle is to walk on the green Earth in the present moment,
to appreciate the peace and beauty that are available now.
Peace is all around us -
in the world and in nature -
and within us -
in our bodies and our spirits.
Once we learn to touch this peace,
we will be healed and transformed.
It is not a matter of faith;
it is a matter of practice.
- Thich Nhat Hanh
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