WE WILL NEVER GET IT BACK

Right after my father died, I made an upsetting comment to my Mom. I told her that I had never really talked to Dad. She promptly told me I was crazy, and that we talked all of the time. I clarified my remark by pointing out that though we often reminisced, spoke of the Packers or the then Milwaukee Braves, or about my grades in school, we never really talked – talk talk, of the intimate kind. She was appalled at the suggestion. I was certain I was being honest and accurate. She brought up her resentment of that remark at least once a year for the remainder of her life.

Still, I was telling the truth. We just never spoke of feelings or thoughts or beliefs, all of the stuff which make us to wonderfully and painfully human. We stayed on the surface. Except for the sentiment he expressed concerning his homeland, England, I never knew what he actually felt about anything he said. His face and voice were a blank slate. Like the sky on a simmering one hundred degree day in August, his soul appeared to be a dull grey lit only by a small lemon drop of a sun. His mood routinely limp. His words rather barren. His expression blank. I am not sure there was all that much in there. He was kind of, well, empty.

I regret this fact. I wish my relationship had gone deeper. That our conversations had been long and full, and filled with intimate details. I wish our talks had created tears in my eyes, or ignited gales of laughter.

Ours was a chit chat relationship. It killed the time. Effectively, I might add. I do know I was guilty of never asking him a really good question. I wish I had known to do that back then. I did not.

I now know that I will never get that time back. Not ever. I will never recover the chance to get to know my Dad, or for he to get to know me. There will never be a long stroll accompanied by a tender thoughtful stream of words. I will never go on a car journey with him, and be forced to talk for hours on end. I will never get to tell him how I felt about him. The good, the bad, and the ugly. And, likewise, I will never unpack his heart as to how he felt about me.

These black holes in our lives are damn tough. Holes where starlight once shined. Where a bright possibility flickered against a black velvet backdrop. It hurts to know inside when something is really and totally gone. Vanished. Having disappeared without a trace. We feel cheated. Empty. Burdened by an absence often larger than the presence had been. It is a sharp ache. Piercing. Doesn’t leave scars, but feels like one has just paid a visit to a really bad acupuncturist. Punctured. That is how the soul feels – almost exactly.

I long to talk to Dad now and then. I yearn for a chance to tell him a good story about my life, my ministry, or his grandson. I have a deep desire to let him know that I knew he loved me. I saw it when he wept when I got off the plane my freshman year for my fall break from St. Olaf College. I was so stunned. He pretended to be sneezing or something, but we both knew. I have little clues like that. A few morsels which have helped me locate fragments of my father’s heart.

Still, it is damn hard to admit that your father never really knew you, and for the most part, remained anonymous to his son. It is a sad fact but true. That is just the way sometimes. In Life there are no real do overs. No mulligan second chances for the lousy golfers. No instant replay. Just a shadow passing by, leaving not a trace. Then it is gone.

There have been times when I have hoped I could follow the shadow down the path and into the woods. But, I know I would lose the trail as quickly as one loses sight of a scampering deer. Then I sigh. So it goes. We will never get it back.