As time passed, I longed for a return to summer holidays where each day was predictable and I was safe. There were no dark hallways, we were never left alone and our little holiday cottage held no secret corners. Dad would keep us balanced despite Mum’s unpredictable moods. We would swim past the breakers and I’d feel braver than I’d ever felt before.
Now, trawling through the past to find my future, I longed for predictability and a father’s hand to hold. The photo snapped on my phone the day before he died pops up on my screen occasionally and I freeze each time I see it. His wizened hand is yellowed, all knuckles and veins, fingers closed gently over mine. He lies in bed, no longer speaking. Light filters through the bay window and his wheelchair is a blur in the far corner.
“You’re brave.”
It’s been three years since he died and I’m not sure I am. I’ve been willing myself to find it in me but the hardness of the road has shaken me.
I’m relearning life with boundaries, discovering the fences I build between my mother and me must be impenetrable except at my choosing. Fay explained it well: we each have a field, with fences and gates between my field and the next. I choose how widely, or even whether, to open my gate. It dawns on me that, if I had understood gates and boundary-crashing years ago, I may not have run away so often.
Much of my battle for healthy boundaries has been a battle to keep myself safe while still honouring others, but I misunderstood the Bible’s command to “honour your father and mother”, mistaking it for silent obedience no matter what.
Parents are our initial bridge between Heaven and earth, chosen to deliver us into life. However, when their behaviour dishonours the children entrusted to their care, something’s got to give. Unravelling a life where the enmeshment was deep and decades-old, but I’m saying “No” more loudly and more often. Perhaps practice makes perfect.
“Dad?”
“Mm?”
“Can I tell you something?”
As always, he was sitting at his desk, lamp lighting several organised piles of papers and files, a half-filled glass of red wine near his right hand, a small speaker behind him playing Mozart. He was a creature of routine: up at 5.30am to jog, rain or shine, then shower in the laundry room at the back of the house so he didn’t wake Mum, leave for work at 7.15am on the dot, home right on 7.15pm, quick dinner on his own then to his study until 9.45. Clockwork, every day. Of course, he was at his desk when I looked for him.
Not that I expected a conversation. I would tell him my news, he would comment with non-committal interest, then I would walk out.
Honour thy father…
I had been sitting cross-legged on my bed for three hours, determined not to move until my decision was made. Planning to travel overseas later in the year, the decision was finally made. Future assured. Now to the part where I honour my father by letting him be the first to know I’m leaving home. At 25, it was well-time.
The conversation progressed as expected. He was positive and encouraging, then returned to his papers. I raced across the hall to my room to plan the beginning of the rest of my life.
The next six months raced by while I quit my job as a preschool director, packed my one room into the spare garage, bought a backpack and sleeping bag and a Hawaii wardrobe. Then we were at the airport and I was leaving.
With no idea I had so many friends, I made my way around the group to say goodbye, then I started on family. Siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews. I was hugging niece three when Dad slumped against a pillar, leaning hard on his walking stick. He was still recovering from spinal surgery several months earlier, but looked pale, stricken even. I kept farewelling, wanting to be gone, glancing at him between hugs as he waited further along the line.
Then I reached my father. I looked into his eyes and he gulped then sobbed. Trying to hold it back. Lips tensed to shut the sound in. Tears flowing.
My father was weeping as he watched his daughter fly away.
When I wrapped my arms around him, he didn’t hug back but laid his cheek on my shoulder for just a second, so fast I almost missed it. Then, his back ramrod straight, his hands clung to the top of his walking stick, protecting the distance between us. He tried to speak but no words would come. I kissed his cheek and I let him go. It was time to fly away, to find where I begin.
This man who never cried, never shared feelings, whose heart I thought never to have touched – this man sobbed at my leaving. Perhaps my father loved me after all.
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