Father & Faith, Forgiveness & Reunions

ON August 9th, after a long transatlantic flight, I looked out the window of the American Airlines plane to see the green and brown landscape of Chicago coming into view...
almost home after a long 14 hour flight from Rome, Italy.
I'd been away for 4 solid weeks--three of them spent in Saudi Arabia with Danielle and her family as she gave birth to their fourth child, a girl, Hannah Marie
and just 6 days in Rome on the way back to Colorado Springs.

The weeks away had been busy and happy ones with grandkids and new experiences in the Middle East and Rome...and stories for another day. So many stories left to share.

My good friend, Debbie had met me in Rome, and we were flying back to the States together.

Just as the plane was touching the earth, I felt a current of knowledge run through my mind: "Your father has died."  My chest heaved a long deep breath and I knew.  I sat back and waited for the plane
to land. I still had to gather my luggage and wait in customs, tucking back the feelings that I had experienced moments earlier.  It wasn't until we were through customs that my phone started to alert me of missed calls.  I looked down to see that I'd missed two calls, back to back, from my brother who lives nearest to my father.  I told Debbie that I had to call my brother right then as it was about my father.  
"Dawn? Where are you?", Keir asked.  
"I've just landed in Chicago O'Hare airport on my way home from Italy." 
 "Are you alone?" 
"No, my friend Debbie is here.  Keir, you're calling about Dad, yes?"
His voice trembled on the other end. "Uh yes."
"I know, Keir. He's died.. right?"
"Yes! How did you know?"
"I just know.  The Spirit told me as the plane was landing that Dad had left."
"I'm freaking out.  I don't know what to do."
"Go to the care center, they'll guide you through this." I told him. "I'll call you when I get home tonight. Love you."

I sat in the boarding area for the next flight feeling warm and loved. So calm and loved.
Of course Debbie asked several times if I was OK...and I was.  

Things ended on a good note between my dad and me.

It hadn't been easy being his daughter.  He, being an orphan himself, wasn't always the father I needed him to be.  He could be very kind and loving, but he also chose his own happiness over ours throughout the years.  My parents' 30 year marriage was rocks and barbed wire...we didn't thrive so much as survive them as our parents.  Lots of breakups and starting overs in those years. Words like "stability" "steady" "healthy" were overrun by "dysfunctional" "toxic" "destructive" "selfish" in our home. I went to thirteen different schools as a kid.
When parents are ignorant of their important role in their children's lives, not much good comes from the home experience.  Such was my childhood.  I was never molested or beaten--but I was abandoned, neglected and afraid for most of it by each parent.  
They divorced when I was already married and had 4 children...my brothers and I breathed a collective, "Finally."  
My dad loved us. In his own way, we knew he loved us.  But he was accountable to noone-- no company, no church, no cultural or academia society.  He was an island.  Shortly after their divorce, he found a girlfriend, Gloria, who had him dressing in matching outfits with her.  She dressed him in things we'd never seen before--and he just went with it.  She also made sure that we didn't talk to him on the phone or see him after the first couple of months--she didn't let us talk to him on the phone and he didn't call us--for the next ten years.  He just went with it.
In that time, I'd had 3 more children whom he had never met or even asked about.  It wasn't until  a few years ago that he opened up his life because of his poor health that we knew anything about him at all.
My feelings about him ran from lukewarm to cold over the years.  I wanted a father, I needed one--but I had zero control over his part of the relationship.  If he didn't show up, I couldn't make him.
The last time I had seen him was 2003, when the kids and I made a trip to Texas where he and my mother, though divorced, were both living. He had asked me to meet him the parking lot of a Village Inn restaurant. Not recognizing him, one of my kids saw a man walking towards our car, and said, "Mom, there's a bum coming over."   I looked over and said, "That's not a bum, that's your grandfather."  My dad, who had been quite a vain man in his youth, had lost a grip on life and was living solely on Social Security, looked a mess in torn jeans, wild hair, a buttoned-down western shirt, and cowboy boots.   I asked him if I could take him shopping and a haircut, and he wouldn't have it.  His appearance wasn't a priority to him anymore.  It was an awkward visit.  
I had gotten calls from local police & sheriffs in recent years, before Dad was placed in an assisted living facility, because they'd found him alongside the road, disoriented, dehydrated.  My phone number was in his phone...I'd call my brother there and he'd take care of him.  That went on for several years--4 at least--before his health demanded constant care and he was properly placed into a care center.

This past April, the phone rang with my brother Keir sharing that Dad had had heart failure and was in the ICU at MD Anderson Hospital in Anderson, South Carolina.  He didn't have a heart attack--it was heart failure, as in, it just stopped working.  He was receiving a kidney blood transfusion and his heart stopped.  When the 911 call went out, two EMT's from South Carolina took the call, instead of the EMT's from Georgia--where the treatment center was located.  It took them five shock treatments to get Dad's heart working again.  If the Georgia EMT's had answered, he would've died because they're only allowed to give three attempts.  South Carolina EMT's max attempts is five.  
So dad was alive, but it was still hard to tell what was left in his brain because of the lack of oxygen, trauma, etc.  
As sad as I was to hear this news from my brother, my knee-jerk reaction was NOT to run to my father's side.  Years ago, I had considered what I would do in this situation and determined I would not make that trip, that effort--not because I didn't care about him, but because I knew he didn't care about me.  "What difference would it make to him if I showed up?" I asked myself.  What difference would it make to him? 
After my brother called that day, I really searched my heart and asked the heavens for guidance. What part is mine?, I wondered. Do I need to go to help my brother? Sweetly, the Spirit told me to go to him. With the help of my daughter, Danielle and her husband, arrangements fell into place,and I was there two days later.  Kent gave me a blessing before I left that this would be a beautiful time with my father and I would have the Spirit with me.  
My flight left the next night just before midnight, landing in Atlanta, and I had to get a rental car and then drive nearly three hours at 5am.  I was exhausted midway and had to pull over at a truck stop to sleep for an hour or so.  I made it to the hotel in Anderson, showered and then drove to the hospital.  I walked up to the hospital doors, taking deep breaths, not knowing what to expect.
The staff there took me to my father's ICU room.  He was sitting up--which I hadn't expected--with his lunch in front of him.  He looked at me, wide-eyed, as I came into the room, smiling.  
"Hi, Dad."
His eyes squinted at me. His eyebrows curiously curled.  He didn't recognize me.
"It's me. Dawn.  Your daughter."
"Dawn? Dawn? No...no.  You're not Dawn.  You're not my daughter."
"Yes, daddy. It's me.  I'm Dawn."
"No. When's your birthday?" he asked.
"November sixteenth nineteen sixty-one. I was born in Miami, Florida. And your birthday is June fourteenth nineteen forty."
"IS IT REALLY YOU? ARE YOU REALLY DAWN?" his eyes widened and face lit up.
"Yes, daddy, it's really me.  How are you? I came to see you."
He turned to his nurse in the room, "Is this my daughter? Is it really?"
She smiled at me, a stranger, I nodded at her to affirm, and she said, "I think so, Mr. Sutton. I think so."
"Damn." he answered.  But because he's a Southerner through and through, it sounded more like, "Day-um".  
The nurse and I laughed.
"Are you really? Are you really my little girl, Dawn Marie?"
"Yes sir. I'm not little though, I'm an old woman now."
"No you're not. You're not old. You're my Dawn Marie. Damn."...and then his eyes welled up with tears and his throat choked up.  
Mine did too.
"I love you, girl. I have always loved you. I mean, I REALLY REALLY love you." he said over and over and over again. At least 50 times, like a needle stuck on an album.  "I love you, I really really love you. You're my girl. You're my firstborn. I love you. I have always loved you."  
The first 50 times he said it, I didn't feel it.  I was gracious and smiling, but I didn't believe him.
The walls around my heart had set pretty well for decades.  
I was there for 3 days at his side--they moved him from ICU to a private room. I called local church missionaries before I had left Colorado to set up a blessing for my father-- so when I called them, they came to the hospital.  They laid their hands upon his head and gave him a blessing of comfort.
There was a sweet moment, when, as the missionary giving the blessing said, "Your Heavenly Father loves you..." my dad offered outloud, "I love Him too. I love God." in the sweetest voice I think I've ever heard.  He told every single nurse, CNM, the missionaries, the housekeepers, every staff member that came into his room, the same thing, "This is my daughter, Dawn Marie. I love her. She's my girl. I have always loved her." He must've repeated those words 500 times in three days.
A miracle happened in those first hours at his side. A true miracle.  My broken heart, the fractured part where my heart connected to my father's--was healed. Just like that.  Permanently healed and sealed with love.   
He was so childlike--he made no demands, asked for nothing.  The nurses enjoyed him. More than one nurse said, "He talks about you all the time. You two must be very close."  It was hard to reveal that as much as I wanted it to be true, it just wasn't.  I explained that he had lived life on his own terms and that didn't include family time.  I really tried to be respectful of my father and not express the hurt his absence in my life had created.  I just enjoyed the moments I had with him.
My brother and his girls joined me at the hospital over those days and evenings were spent together catching up--I hadn't seen my brother since 1993.  Yes, 1993.  Those fractures in our family run deep...not knowing the importance of family is as genetic as the color of our eyes--green from Mom's side and blue from Dad's.  Being the oldest and only daughter with four younger brothers, I have a different perspective than my brothers about life and family. I credit my desire to have a relationship with Heavenly Father for that difference.  
So my initial understanding that I'd go to support my brother in this situation--that I'd go to help him ended up really being about loving him, loving his girls, loving their momma, and her momma  and my father.  Turns out, it was all about Love.
My three days wasn't long enough, but I had to get back to Colorado because college finals were that week and I couldn't miss them.  I would've loved to have stayed weeks longer.
The walk to the car from the hospital was miserable. I sobbed outloud in the parking lot. I was not composed and calm. I was a wreck. I knew I'd never see him again in this life.  And that truth was so real, so painful, so so much.  I sat in the rental car fumbling to turn on the a/c so I could breathe in the hot humid air...and the tears fell like a rainstorm onto my lap.  
I was SO glad I came to my father's side. SO grateful that I listened to the gentle promptings of the Spirit and that I had this sacred time with my father--so many moments of gentle healings in that short of time.  What a gift this trip had been FOR my good, for my heart, for my soul.  

So when I learned that my father had passed away, just as the plane landed in Chicago...it was a sweet, loving experience.  No room for bitterness or sadness or negative emotions whatsoever.  We'd been reconciled.  He never apologized for his errors as a parent.  He never asked for forgiveness.  He didn't have to...He just expressed his love for me a thousand times over three short days and that's all it took. All I ever wanted was to feel his love for me.

I learned much in this lesson. It took decades to learn this lesson, however, It wasn't wrought through a cheap experience.  This lesson was years in the making...this miracle of forgiveness is still a fluid development in my person.  It is effervescent in nature...subtle nuances bubbling about and around in my heart and mind.  I see God's hand in this every time I ponder on it.  His healing power in the Atonement of Jesus Christ is in this...I see it, I feel it, I am wrapped up in it.

Forgiveness for my father is about Me.  It is the healing that forgiveness brings to the "Forgiv-er"--
not just the forgiven that frees us from the bondage of sin.  Indeed, such power has propelled me to do something I never thought I would: make a phone call to my mentally ill mother and tell her I love her.  If you have been following this blog over the years, then you know the impact of that decision. If not, then suffice it to say, having a mentally ill mother is 100 degrees more difficult than having an aloof, absent father.  But, I did it.  I got her number from a brother and called her last Sunday.  I prepared for the call by first writing down my expectations from the experience. It would be civil. I would be kind. I would expect nothing in return.  I would just express my concern for her well-being and wish her well.  I said a prayer before I dialed the number.  We spoke for an hour and twenty-four seconds...about her--her health, her life, her plans.  She doesn't ask about me--in fact, said frankly, "I never worry about you or your family, Dawn."  It stung, just a little, and I let it go.  Yes, I know that. I knew that before I called.  To let it fester in pain is useless.  It's just words. Little words that reflect off my heart like teflon.  Her mental illness doesn't allow for intimacy in relationships--they're more fuel to the fire.  Understanding that, and knowing the power of forgiveness helped me to side step her words and just leave a piece of my heart at her doorstep and walk away with grace.  
It wasn't hard.  I want to make that clear.  It wasn't a hold-your-breath-and-show-up kind of experience.  It was mindful and calm.  Purposeful and deliberate.  Forgiveness allows for all the noise in a troubled, painful situation dissolve into simpler terms, simpler emotions.  Like a receding wave, it takes that negativity out to sea, away from the shore of one's heart, never to be seen again.

Our conversation consisted of phrases like, "I'm sorry that happened to you." "I'm glad you've got support in that." "That will be so nice for you."  and on and on.  It didn't have to be a deep conversation of past topics, delving up painful words and silence for there to be civility--for the power of forgiveness to work into our dysfunctional relationship. I had let go of my expectations decades earlier and only recently realized that those expectations were inevitably unmet, sincerely because mental illness has no conscience or loyalty or ability to meet any expectations, whatsoever.
Righteous boundaries are necessary, so dysfunction doesn't run amuck--but there is room for healing there too.

What remains is the good stuff.  My father loved a good laugh, a good prank.  He laughed with his whole body.  He was friendly to everyone he met--be it the Waffle House waitress, the gas station attendant or the Queen of England--his go-to-response to the question, "How are you?" was the same every time, "If I were any better, I couldn't stand it." He liked BarBQ ribs--he'd eat every part of a pig "but the oink".  He loved the sport of football--the Dolphins, Broncos, Oilers (back when they were in Houston), and the Seahawks for one season.  He loved a winner.  
He was a salesman to the bone. He could sell an igloo to an eskimo was his motto. Cowboy hats and boots filled his closet when I was a kid.  He liked horses and country living, but he fancied himself a city slicker. He liked the Beatles and George Strait. He watched "Jeopardy" religiously.  He loved his momma, who passed away when he was eight years old. I have no doubt theirs was a joyous reunion on the afternoon of August 9th, 2016.  
Reunions are beautiful. And love, love is always the answer.