I am my Dad

Perhaps all of us, in one way or another, have had that experience where we opened our mouth and our father, or mother, came out.

For a long time, due to various resentments from childhood, and yes, simple adolescent rebellion against the image of my father, I focused my own self understanding and identity on being different than my dad.  Many instances, many choices, made specifically to be different than the dad I knew.

I hug and kiss my children.  That's an experience I never had growing up.

As a pastor I've striven to be grace oriented, and avoid the pitfalls of my father's pietism and yes, legalism. 

As a craftsman, I sought to advance my work to the highest standard, far beyond what my father accomplished. 

OK, so in some of the nuances of life I may have distinguished myself from my father.  Having said that though, a casual observer might note that I have mirrored my father's life in my own: a family man devoted to providing for and caring for my wife and children, a pastor dedicated to ministry, and a self taught craftsman committed to the belief that whatever the task at hand, 'I could figure it out'. 

My sense of Call and willingness to serve where ever the Church has asked me to serve, is a legacy from dad.  He built furniture for the family, a boat, and a home.  Dito, though I worked with him on building his place, not my own.   Oh, and I realize now that aside from the hugging and kissing, we have showed our love for our family in some very similar ways. 

And  then there is the physical stuff.  We both had our mitral valves repaired.  We've both struggled with mental health issues: dad being a bit OCD, me bipolar.  And hair for hair our heads are a reflection of each other, balding but never completely.

I recognize my own failures, similar to my dad's.  I tell myself I've been more expressive of my love for my children, but wonder if I've truly communicated that to them.  I hope I've been clear that I love each of them, am proud of each of them, and indeed consider them to be my greatest gift to the world.  Pat myself on the back.  But then I also realize that Dad went out of his way on several occasions to communicate that to us as well. 

One of the most poignant moments for me with my dad, was during the last few months of his life.  He stated, upon seeing my grandson Jasper run to my arms, that one day he hoped Jasper would run to him as well.  Dad was wishing he could be more like me. 

I am coming to realize that one aspect of being at peace with myself, is to be at peace with my dad.  That's a twofold statement.  To be at peace with my own failures involves forgiving dad for his.  And to celebrate my own successes is to affirm the values and abilities that are a legacy from my father.

There are regrets.  I allowed a distance to develop between my parents and I in the final years of their lives.  I was too busy.  I made a specific decision that I would not spend every vacation I had fixing up and maintaining the lake place so that my siblings could enjoy it as their vacation place.  But probably the greatest distance came as a result of my personal struggles.

I humor myself this morning with the thought that when we were sick as children, my parents were not the dotting nursing type.  I recall basically being put to bed, and being left alone to rest and recover.  This may not be totally fair to them, but to this day if I'm sick I just want to be left alone.  I'll come out when I feel better.

It was hard to let my parents care for me throughout the last couple of decades as I struggled with depression/bipolar disorder.  There was part of me that just wanted to be left alone.  I didn't allow them the opportunity to show me how much they cared.  There were a few instances, however, that their concern broke through.

My mother, reflecting on my needing psychiatric care, stated that "she might have benefited from such care had it been available to her in her life."  And then there was my father who read this blog like a best selling novel.  "You should write a book." he would tell me.

Perhaps God got it wrong when he gave us the commandment to "honor our father and mother".  Perhaps instead the commandment should have been to "forgive our father and mother."  And perhaps, they are one and the same thing.

But this I know, that we can never be fully at peace with ourselves if we are not at peace with our parents.  You can spend thousands of dollars on psychotherapy, but it all boils down to that.  The acorn doesn't fall far from the oak.  And those genes didn't come from nowhere.

Finally, I will say this about mom and dad.  Their marriage was a mating of mom's compassion with dad's convictions.  I've joked that I inherited my dad's heart (and mitral valve failure) and my mother's deteriorating knees.  I hope that a more profound inheritance is the compassion of my mother and the convictions of my father, wed together as one.

Good Grief

Dad died.  Unexpectedly.  Well, he was 94 years old and can one ever die unexpectedly at 94.  Probably not.  It's just that up until the last day he was doing fine for a man his age.  He was able to go for his walks.  His mind was as sharp as could be.

Dad came to live with us for the last month.  We'd hoped it might have been more.  He had shared that following Mom's death he was becoming increasingly lonely.  That's the problem of growing older.  One by one the companions of your life die, and you are left either seeking other companionship, or resolving to make the best of it alone.  I determined that the last thing I'd want would be is a lonely old man when I died, and so I invited Dad to make his home with us, surrounded by family.

I think the last few months were the best one could hope for.  This summer he had spent most of time at the lake place, having the opportunity to see all of  his children there.  And then he was with us.  In the end, all was well with Dad.  Is all well with me?

I find myself wondering how my grief will play out when coupled with being bipolar.

I am deeply grateful for the last evening with Dad.  Thanks in part to his hearing aids being cleaned up and checked out, he was able to converse normally.  The opportunity was not lost.  Prior to my going to bed he came out and asked if we could talk.  What is your favorite Bible verse?  As the conversation progressed Dad did something unusual.  He made the effort to get up out of his chair and come over and sit next to me on the couch.  There was a closeness we had not experienced together, perhaps ever.  We were at one and the same time father and son, and colleagues in ministry.  "I hope we can have many more conversations like this, Dave."  "Me too, Dad."

I only wish I'd said "I love you" or gave him a hug then.  I didn't.

And so the next morning the grieving began.  I was able to sit with him following his death.  Now, too late, the "I love you" was spoken.  A kiss goodbye.

And I wrote the sermon for his  funeral, based on the conversation we had shared.  Next came the fulfilling of a promise I made to him, which was to make an urn for him and mom.  Mom's urn was too small to contain both their ashes, too large to allow room for a second urn in the niche, so the urn I turned above is large enough for both of them.  As I began the process of building it, tears flowed.

I'd spent the summer remodeling the house in preparation for his moving in.  This was different.  So final.  And a goodbye.  And yet one more way to say "I love you, Dad."

One of the thoughts that came to me, with the death of the last of our parents, was that I might be next.  I am at the very least part of the 'oldest generation' in the family.  Other thoughts as well have been stirred.  Might this be the last time all of the siblings are together at one time?  Oh, we'll see each other individually, but will it be possible in the future to all be together?

Dad's hat and coat still hang in the hallway.  I want them there.  For a while at least.

There had been a distance between us that needn't have been there between a Father and Son.  One would think that my having followed him into the ministry would have changed that, but the distance remained.  Part of that distance was simply a symptom of being Norwegian Americans.  We're not known for being overly affectionate.

But if I'm totally honest, the distance between us goes way back to my childhood.  I was arrested for  shoplifting.  Dad came down hard on me and declared that I'd permanently damaged my character, that I'd always be a criminal from that time forth and forever more.  I turned elsewhere for affection ever since.

Part of the grief I experience now is concerning not his death, but the missed opportunity to have a better and richer relationship with him throughout his life.  It could have been better.  But sometimes the emotional scars of childhood are difficult to overcome.  Part of the challenge for me is that when I turned elsewhere for affection, the first person to offer it was a band director who subsequently sexually abused me.  I had so longed for affection that I was unable to recognize the abuse for what it was until over 20 years later.  It was not until my own children were the age I was when  I was abused, that my eyes were opened.  What if someone treated my children the way I'd been treated.  "I'd kill them!" was the thought that came to mind.  Well, at least press charges.

Part of the distance between my Dad and I was because the stern judgment Dad made of my character after being arrested for shoplifting set me up for the abuse that was to follow.  Father's are supposed to protect their children.  I think I've forgiven him.  But that's easier said than done.  There is something to be said for years of psychological therapy.

Now there is just grief.  Both for the Dad I lost, and the Dad I never had.  I wonder what affect Dad's losing his own mother during his childhood had on his emotional development.  Alice had contracted tuberculosis, spent time in a sanitarium, and then subsequently died when he was about 12, curiously enough, about the same time in his life as the abuse occurred in my life.  Two wounded souls.

And we both found ourselves called into the ministry to care for other wounded souls.

There's something fearful about grief when one is bipolar.  Will it trigger something far worse.  I've achieved functional stability, but grief can destabilize.  Will the medications I'm on prevent a relapse?  Will I be offered the opportunity to experience 'good grief'?  Or will circumstances rage out of control.  Thankfully, I've maintained therapeutic relationships.  There is some comfort in that.

In so many ways Dad lived a remarkable life.  Much of what I am is a reflection of the gifts he and Mom gave us throughout the years.  I've joked that I inherited my Mom's bad knees, and my Dad's bad heart (we've both had mitral valve surgery, a genetic condition).  But there is much good I've received, as well.  My resourcefulness and independence are gifts of my parents.  I'm a builder like my Dad.  And faith.  In the midst of all the hurt in life, I have faith.  Dad's gift.  And that is sufficient.

Instability, or perhaps it was just the flu shot.

There are times I wonder why I continue to write this blog as I have been so stable that it seems I have little to say about being bipolar.  Of course, perhaps the most important thing I have to say is that with proper management and medication, bipolar people can live their lives with relatively stable moods.  

And then there are other times when the instability of my situation comes into play.

Family of origin issues are major triggers for instability.  So much so that at times I wish I didn't have a family of origin, except for the fact that without one I would not be.  Oh, the dilemma.  

The basic situation is straight forward.  My father owns a home on Flathead Lake.  He is enjoying good health and a long life.  He lives now in a senior housing community.  He has long term care insurance, but his good health precludes him from using it.  He has had an adequate pension, but his long life has resulted in those resources being depleted.  

And so it is time to for him to consider selling the place on the lake.  Our first choice would be to keep it in the family, and one sibling is considering buying it, but doesn't want to create division in the family.  Another sibling is adamantly opposed to its being sold, which ironically may result in it having to be sold outside of the family.  And still others have no problem with the sale and use of the proceeds to provide Dad the resources he needs at this time.  Complex issues and interpersonal dynamics.

Having been informed of the various issues surrounding the decision (which for the record will in the end be Dad's decision, not ours) I found myself plunging into a depressed state yesterday.  All I wanted to do was sleep, but I couldn't.  I lost my appetite, and left half of my steak dinner on the plate.  I welcomed in the new year by going to bed at 6:30 pm, and waking almost in time to say hello to 2017, 12:15 am.  

I write in self defense.  Writing has become a means for me to protect myself from these mood swings, to center myself, and reestablish some equilibrium. 

And then another thought comes into play.  Earlier last week I had my annual physical and with that, a flu shot.  Perhaps what I was experiencing health wise was simply a reaction to the flu shot.  It's hard to tell.

 Coping.  If I've learned anything through all the counseling I've participated in it is this:  It doesn't matter what happens, what matters is how we respond to what happens.  Secondly, we set our boundaries.  We do not let others drive our moods.  That will at times mean keeping others at arms length, of refusing to engage.

The struggle is how do we balance the need for personal intimacy with others, while limiting the vulnerability that such intimacy entails.  

I wish I had the answer to that question.  The more engaged I am with others, the more likely that I will experience violent mood swings.  But the alternative is to fall into isolation, and with that, depression.  

I thank God for our grandchild.  Jasper is a constant source of delight.  Just watching him grow and develop is good medicine for the soul.  

There are times I think that it would be a good idea to sell our home and move closer to my work.  (My commute is 40 miles one way to the cabinet shop, an additional 20 miles to the church.)  But the cost of moving would be that it would become more difficult to pick up hot fudge Sundaes and go spend a few minutes of delight with Jasper.  

Finally, there is the dream world.  Dreams have been, uh, shall I say entertaining of late.

This morning I had a dream (inbetween the first 12:15 wake up, and the 2:15 get up).  It began with forgetting to bring a printed copy of my sermon to worship.  When I arrived at church I discovered that in the process of installing all sorts of hi-tech equipment we had lost internet capability and I was not able to access my "drop box" to print off my sermon there.  Over the course of the dream, our little congregation's sanctuary morphed into a multi level mega Church sanctuary.  Many people from my past were part of the congregation.  But most entertaining of all was that while I was busy trying desparately to down load my sermon (which you can read at wanderingsthroughtheword.com, Year A, The Name of Jesus, Yeshua -- Yes my dream included my actual sermon for today) the service started without me.  The opening of the service involved a traveling troupe of transvestite entertainers (they came highly recommended) that were leading the congregation in an activity, a holy 'water wars' type of game (alla Bible Camp) in remembrance of our baptism. 

I kid you not.  That was the dream.  

I now have a vision of how to redevelop my little congregation into a mega Church. . .