It seems likely that my dad will be visiting New York this summer. He doesn’t know exactly when, or what he wants to do while he’s here, but I’m hoping he can make it.
[…] The divorce impacted me much more than I ever let on. Somehow, though, my mother always knew that it hurt me. I remember that at one point, she cried at my feet and begged for forgiveness. I thought then that she was overreacting. But oh, she’s always had the gift of foresight and the humility to know the greatest sin against me that I would struggle with.
I still can’t remember a single bad memory I have of my father. He made mistakes, sure, and he was much better at being a father than he was at being a husband. I will not blame my mother for the divorce. The things his family did to my mother, I cannot condone. I quiver with more than a sensation of agitation, with great sadness, how self-righteous people can be. So much so that they do not even realize that they’ve hurt others, and make more self-righteous excuses that condemn the victim, compounding sin upon sin.
My father, unlike the aforementioned, has always treated me with love, and has always been quick to apologize when he knew he made a mistake. But he and I would be the first to admit that he is not the smartest man in the world, nor does he have the best social skills. But what he lacked in intelligence, he more than made up for it with love.
I’ve been fortunate enough to visit him in Hawaii and Colorado during his pastoral ministries there. Every person from those churches that I spent any decent amount of time with always asked me the same questions: is your mother remarried, and if not, can she remarry your father? They loved my father, but always knew that his days as a pastor were numbered without a wife who supported him both as a wife and as an able mediator between him and the congregation.
But they would also tell me more about him, and his deep love for me. He so often lovingly shared fleeting memories of his two sons into his sermons that they couldn’t wait to see us. When we got there, we were treated like kings. He always prayed for me, they said, much more than I could ever realize. Oh, Monica of Saint Augustine would have been ashamed! And he always asked their advice for gifts to give me, for particularly rare occasions that he would pass through Los Angeles and meet me for lunch every other year. The last thing he wanted to do was let me down during those precious fleeting moments.
My mother never stopped me from seeing my father; in fact, she encouraged it. Having witnessed what kind of an impact the exact opposite could have made, I am forever grateful for my mother’s wisdom. I remember one particular occasion when she went out of her way to have me see my dad. He would be on a layover flight in Los Angeles, and I could meet him at the gate for two hours before he took off again. This was all possible pre-9/11, and my mom encouraged me to see him.
I don’t remember much from that short dinner from an overpriced airport restaurant. It was his time to go, much too soon. But before he did, he carefully unpacked his bag and revealed a plastic Boeing airplane he wanted me to keep. “Listen to your mother, Elliott, because she’s right. She’s always been right. And know that I love you.” As he put his hand on my shoulder and kissed my forehead, I took hold of that airplane, as though holding it tighter would prevent him from departing. Oh how I wept, uncontrollably, not knowing when I would see him again. ‘How pathetic is it that I should see my own father for just two hours every two years?’ I tightly wrapped my arms around him, and my mother turned away to drop tears of her own. “Last call for boarding,” the attendant announced on the loudspeakers, awaiting us as we embraced in the emptied terminal. My father let me go and handed his ticket to the attendant. And before he disappeared from my sight, he looked back at me one last time, and left a smile for me to remember him by.
I don’t think I said a single word to my mom on the ride home that night. “Elliott, I hope one day you’ll forgive me.” I looked out the window, holding onto my airplane. Who do I blame? My mom? My dad? My God? I succumbed late to the exhaustion of thoughts and emotions of that night, having received no answers…