My dad

I’m officially Benny’s favorite now- the cool parent, the fun one.  He is at a unique season in childhood where he is fixated on me.  He wants to know where I was, where I am, and where I’m going.  He wants me to be the one who walks him upstairs to bed at night and cuddle with him before he falls asleep. 

Sometimes he will wake up in the middle of the night and crawl into bed with us.  He grabs my lifeless arm, puts it around his skinny belly and uses it to “hug” himself.  I finish the job with an extra-long squeeze.

I entertain him, I comfort him, I regulate him.  I also guide and push him.

Over the years, my kids have unopened old wounds that my dad left me.  Often it has been through painful things they experienced or did.  This is different.  

I’m giving Benny what he needs at this point in his life—reassurance that I am here, he is safe, he is loved.  He is getting what every child deserves to have.

I see what he needs, and I’m thankful I’m whole enough to provide it for him.  When I hug him, it’s not just a gesture.  I want him to remember the hug and how he feels when I’m there with him.  

I feel such affection and care for him, but I feel lonely, empty.  I wish I had had that growing up; I wish I had it now.

I have so many blessings, a wonderful life, a beautiful family that is whole.  I still wish I knew what it is like to have a dad that is proud of me, that is thinking of me, that wants me to be safe, that reassures me that he is there.

 

I perched high in the massive branches of the mulberry tree, escaping the pain of the world around me. I consumed berry after berry until my little fingers and lips were the color of a deep bruise. I wasn’t just feeding myself. I was caring for myself. The adventure of climbing branch after branch… the distraction of searching, picking, and eating… and the calmness of solitude in the tree all nourished me with more than just berries.

I’ve come to realize the tree is much smaller than I remember. I have slowly driven by the house and tree and have chuckled at how small that tree really is. I have also come to realize the pain and bruises I was trying to heal from are more severe than what I care to write about this morning.

What I will write about is the fact that I’ve been healing and growing. I have a life of blessing that I’m almost embarrassed by. I don’t feel like I deserve it. What I’ve been given is so much greater than what the enemy stole from me.

On July 26 we are closing on our forever home. It’s located perfectly for school, work, and ministry. I’ll have my sunrises, my wife will have her sunsets, and we will enjoy hundreds of them together. My kids will have their fishing, kayaking, chickens, rabbits, and more. We will have a steady salty breeze. We will have room to care for others. It won’t just be my oasis. It will be all of ours.

As providence would have it, I was just gifted a mulberry sapling by friends of ours- friends who only know a small part of my story. They only know that they saw a 42 year old man get distracted during their farm tour and get lost in the mulberry trees. They saw my big smile that showed off my purplish-black teeth and my stained fingers continuing to reach out for more. They loaded me up with a basket of berries for my kids. I unapologetically ate them all by myself 10 minutes into the ride home.

Later this month we will plant this little tree at our new home. In years to come I imagine I may have some little ones running around Papi’s home. I can’t wait to pick them up and help them reach the berries growing high on the towering branches. They can climb, but they won’t have to.

“Me llamo Daniel. Tengo cuarenta y dos años. Mi apodo es Frijolito.”

I was back in Guatemala and was ready to spout off my greeting to the members of The Rhino’s. I bounced lightly on the spongy turf of the field, eager to play some futbol, but even more eager to see the boys.

One by one The Rhino’s marched in. A person from my old neck of the woods may have crassly said “they all look the same.” Short and skinny bodies made their backpacks all seemed oversized. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, and big smiles accentuated their big white teeth (and some pretty adorable dimples too.) They all seemed to have a confident bounce in their step as they came over and gave us all the same simple not-so-secret handshake.

Truthfully, to me the boys all did look the same… It’s ok. I can say that. They all looked like me when I was a kid. It is evident that the boys and I share much of the same Mayan blood. One of the boys and I even share the same apodo… at least until they renamed me on day one.

When I was little the apodo affectionately given to me by my family was Frijolito. The typical beans that Guatemalans eat are small and dark… so the nickname “little bean” was a good fit.

We weren’t wealthy, but we were well off enough for my mom to put me in private school, piano lessons, and recreational sports. Thus in many of my social settings I was often smaller and usually darker than my mostly white friend group.

The other Frijolito was a runt even by this village’s standards. I didn’t visit his home, but if he is like 90% of the people that live in his village then I can give an accurate description. His entire family all share one small room of a tiny “house.” They do have some basic necessities. His water is turned on briefly by the municipality once a day… enough to fill up a plastic tub. There’s enough water in the tub to use for a light sponge bath, to scrub some clothes with, and to do some simple cooking with. There is a single lightbulb in their room that can be turned on for a little while each night. There are a couple of skinny chickens walking around the yard. A wood fire sends smoke rising up in the middle of the yard; his grandmother is cooking a simple meal of tortillas and beans.

He has no refrigerator. He has no pantry stocked with food. His dad isn’t around. The social economics of the area is such that dad is away from the village working the fields for a meager salary. So the village is filled with mothers, grandmothers, and children… but not many dads. Unless something changes, Frijolito is likely to end up dropping out of the soccer academy and out of school to go work the fields like his dad. Breaking the cycle is really hard to do.

But there is hope for Frijolito.

I’m a bit big to be called that now. By Guatemalan standards, I’m downright massive (except for my calves.) So the boys decided Frijolito would no longer be an appropriate name for me. Frijolon was the new name they gave me instead.

Big Bean… three times the size of Frijolito… but still a bean. Say “Frijolon” out loud and emphasize the last syllable “lon” and you’ll sense just how big of a deal this bean is now.

So here’s what’s up. Frijolito has no idea how broken his home life is. He has no comprehension of the generational trauma he has inherited. He has no idea of how the absence of his father will leave him with wounds he will possibly nurse for his entire life. He has no idea of the sacrifices his mother made to help him succeed in life. He has no idea how hard he will have to fight just to consistently believe that there are people in his life that really do love him. He has no idea just how much he needs community to help care for him.

Frijolon does. Frijolon knows he is kind of broken, and often times he is ok with that. He knows his brokeness helps him give and love and serve others in a special way. He knows he is doing more than just ok. He knows he is breaking the cycle.

“Me llamo Daniel. Tengo quarenta y dos años. Mi apodo es Frijolon.”

I’m told he was a prankster and fun to be around. He loved to party. He loved to laugh and smile. But when I try to picture his face, all I remember is a mustache and a furrowed eyebrow.

Only about 4-5 pictures of him remain- and he has a stoic expression in all of them.

I wish one of the pictures showed his smile. I wish I could remember his laugh. I wish a lot of things about my dad.

A week ago my mom and sister visited my aunt, his sister. We now have a new picture! Of course, no smile. But he is younger in this picture than in any of them I’ve ever seen before- maybe just a couple years older than my 19 year old son.

The resemblance is uncanny- especially the mouth and jawline.

Maybe I have seen my dad’s smile after all.

Bethany and I love driving through Riverside and admiring the beautiful historic homes.  We will often point out specific homes that catch our eye.  

We were on the street I’ve intentionally driven down hundreds of times before. It’s right on the way to a strip of restaurants that we enjoy eating at. I always slow down at this one specific block and take in the scenery.

When Bethany said, “Ooh, that one is pretty!” I knew which one she was referring to.  There was nothing striking about it, but it had been tastefully renovated a few years ago.   It blended in well in the historic setting, but the fresh paint, color choices, and meticulous landscaping were a step above the other homes.

“Yep, that’s the house where my dad took his life.” Cue the awkward silence…

I only have a couple memories of the house as a kid.  I remember the back entrance, and my eagle eye spying the “Pound Puppy” stuffed animal on a high shelf that Dad had tucked away before my birthday.  I was elated that he relented and gave it to me early.  I remember the front porch.  I remember the fucking garage.

The house is definitely prettier and nicer now. There’s no way it would look like that if he still occupied it. The work that has been done since then was no doubt expensive, as historic renovations always are. You can’t just do superficial work. Throwing down some vinyl plank and throwing up some paint only covers up serious problems that need remediation. Peeling back layers of damaged wood reveals more layers of damaged wood. A sagging floor isn’t just a sagging floor; it’s a structural problem that needs fixing from the inside out. A rotten piece of siding covers up a mold problem, which is caused by an intrusion of moisture. The outlets may work, but a closer look shows that the wiring is frayed and the electrical panel is an immediate fire hazard. A stopped up bathtub can’t be fixed by a plunger. The clay sewage pipes in the yard have been overtaken by roots that have clogged it up. You have to rip it all out and replace it with PVC. And even after all that time, energy, and money- it’s still the house where my dad died.

Nostalgia doesn’t quite summarize what I feel. Seeing the house, or truthfully seeing any of the homes from my childhood creates an unpleasant longing for something I feel like I lost, but truthfully maybe never had.

I wonder what it must feel like to be able to look back fondly at what used to be. I do have many memories of many good times. I had a good childhood. But I still have a deep longing for what could and should have been.

When I see the house, I breathe in deeply and feel. I feel sad knowing the tears he must have shed. I feel the loneliness he may have felt when it was time for us to leave to go back with mom. I feel the panic of knowing he didn’t have enough money to pay the rent. I feel the anger when the landlord reneged on her deal. I feel the rage, shame, fear, and emptiness of those final moments.

Much has changed since then. The house is more beautiful than ever. Those who walk by see what it is today. They don’t know the history. They don’t see my pain. They see what it has become. They see what I am today.

I have a somewhat irrational belief that I’m physically stronger and more capable than I was in my younger days. My back often reminds me this isn’t quite true… and today’s sore hamstrings remind me my aging cells no longer recover at the same rate they used to. My softish belly hides the abs that used to be clearly visible. My breathing, grunting, and sweating during WARM-UPS are inexcusable.

I am willing to pridefully discuss the feats of my past. Just ask my son about them. He’s heard all the stories… I could share about sending three people to the hospital during my wrestling career, barreling over and through the middle linebacker, throwing a football over them mountains.

Maybe there’s some embellishment there, but I have to admit- my younger self would probably send this old man to the hospital. Yet even as I type those words, I still think I could win today. True- I’m softer now… but damnit, I still think I’m stronger.

My faith has aged in a similar way.

“Pastor Danny.” Sometimes I still run into someone from my past who calls me that. It’s not who I am anymore, but it’s who I was for years. Dozens of missions trips, hundreds of sermons, a handful of counseling sessions. Baptisms, Bible studies, Sunday School classes, and loads of prayer and reading. Everything was black and white for me. Life was simple. I could pray and speak with conviction. There was very little compromise on the standards I believed I should live by. I was on a mission.

Today, I can barely pray for longer than 5 minutes. I read a few scriptures each morning. Most of my prayers are, “Fucking help me!” “Jesus Christ, what the fuck?!!” “God, help him!” I get exhausted sometimes sitting through an entire sermon. I have to sit during a lot of worship sets because of my feet and my back. I am full of doubt and skepticism.

I’ve experienced enough setbacks and disappointment to no longer have the naïve child-like faith of my youth. But I’ve walked long enough to know who I am without my faith, and there’s no way in hell that I’m going to back to being that hopeless man.

I’m softer now. I’m quick to cry for the pain another person is going through. I’m quick to feel the hurt that others are going through. I’m quick to lend a helping hand, to reach out, to love, give, and serve. I’m quick to father someone in need. I’m quick to break down in tears over the riches I have that I don’t deserve. I’m so, so, so blessed. My wife loves me. My kid loves me. They know I love them. I have treasures that others dream of. I have friends who genuinely care about me. I’m no longer strong and silent. I’m no longer stoic. I’m broken, and I love it.

I’m stronger now. My own burdens seem so small and insignificant. I look to those around me and want to help them. I see the pain my own brothers are going through, and I pray, briefly yet powerfully, for them to make it through. I want my nieces and nephews, siblings, mom, wife, and kids to know they’re more loved than they know they are. I want them to know that they’re stronger than they think they are. I can’t fix it all, but I can love them. I can’t make them better, but I can be a light.

“What are you most proud of?” she asked.

He paused for a moment, then responded softly.  “That I graduated the apprenticeship… and that my family loves me.”  In this moment (season) of darkness, there wasn’t much else that came to his mind.

He could have said that he had previously served as the president of the labor union. He could have referred to his years of military service.  He could have referred to his years of battling through depression. He could have talked about his position in his church.

In this moment of crisis, his family’s love for him came to mind.

I hate that he feels broken and useless. I hurt knowing he has so much hurt he still needs to work through. I grieve for the ups and downs that his journey will continue to bring him through. But knowing he feels loved gives me some hope that his story is far from over.

I know I’m not more important than the people around me. I know I’m not better, smarter, or stronger. What I do feel is that it’s my calling to care for those around me. I feel called to be the shepherd of my family. I’m here to love them. I’m here to father them. I feel honored and incredibly grateful to be here for them: my wife, kids, nieces, nephews, mother, coworkers, and friends.

I do lean on others too.  Vaughan, Mike, Daniel B, Mark R. and others.  These brothers have seen me ugly-cry too many times.  I’ve learned to be open and vulnerable and weak with my wife.  I’ve tried to show my son Daniel my flaws and wounds.  Even when I sat with him at Carrabba’s and shared my deepest weaknesses, wounds, and flaws, he replied back that he knows he has the best dad in the world.  What irony.

I pray all my family feels loved. I pray they feel safe. I pray they learn to lean on God and on each other. I pray they learn to care for each other, forgive each other, and encourage each other. I pray they become strong, independent, and well.

I am painfully aware of my mortality and that one day I will not be physically present for those I love. There’s often an unhealthy focus on the fact that I’m dying (though at this moment I’m a healthy 41-year-old.) But when I’m gone, I hope my family members embody the values that somewhere along the way became engrained into who I am.

My cousins recently prayed over me and said some words that meant so much to me.  “God is bringing a new lineage through you.” I claim it.  I’m passing on a legacy.  I’m being used to change our family’s destiny.  My dad’s wounds wounded me.  He left me with a handful of memories and a shitload of pain.  I’ve grown past the shame.  I’ve used my pain to be a healer.

Am I proud? Damn right I’m proud. My family feels loved.

Pain, tears, disappointment.

Heartache.  Failure.

Not, “why me?” but “why not me?”

Am I walking through unscathed? Am I strong? 

I hate the thought that creeps in… maybe I am better.

I remind myself of grace I did not earn.

Judgement is swallowed by love and empathy.

I have my scars of my own, and now fresh wounds that are not my own.

 

How do I love without judging?

How do I stoop down without condescending?

How do I empower without enabling?

How do I give out without giving out?

 

I tell myself it’s not on me, but who else is going to do it?

I want my family to be better.  I want my family together.

I want to right the wrongs.

 

I pray that You really are who I want You to be. I pray that my hope isn’t in vain. I pray it isn’t up to me and it isn’t on my shoulders.

I smile thinking about your spunk and carefree attitude. I can still see you running around the farm, boots up to your knees, and a hen under each arm.

I’m also pained knowing that being a 13 year old girl is tough. I hate to see the frustration and insecurity that you experience because of your stuttering and the challenge of being the new girl at school. I know you’re frustrated with the learning challenges you’ve been having too. I console myself with the fact that these challenges are helping develop tenacity and toughness that will help carry you far in life.

I feel gratitude just knowing I get to be your dad. I feel love. I feel proud.

You’re fearless. You’ve always been that wild girl with unkempt hair diving on top of a soccer ball while feet and dirt are flying all around you. You’ve taken a knee to the stomach and a foot to the face and still charge forward with fearlessness.

You’ve experienced rejection from friends yet still keep loving them and opening yourself up to more hurt. Most people would retaliate or pull back, but you’re not most people. That selfless love will be the rock of your marriage and family one day.

My most treasured memory is you staying with me at work helping me care for Covid patients. Your presence breathed life into my sick and tired body. I shed quite a few tears that week before you came with me. I felt weak and alone without you. You helped me make it through that difficult time. Your big heart is such a blessing.

I laugh to myself thinking about the prayer groups at the retreat. The kind things your group spoke about you were all about me. “God, thank you that Addy has such a great Dad.” I’m sure that not what you wanted to hear. You see me when I’m tired. You see me when I’m angry. You experience the discipline, boundaries, and also the reality of who I am. You see my reaction when you leave your trash in my car, your dishes on the table, and fail to do your homework.

One day you’ll be known for much more than just being my daughter. But the truth is you’ll never fully escape that fact. So this means a few things…

It means I will always love you so incredibly much. It means I’m so proud of you. It means I’ve made sacrifices for you, some of which you have no idea about. It means I’ve read books about how to be a better dad to you and tried practicing those things. It means I’ve reached out to other dads asking for guidance and mentoring on how to better love and raise you. It means I’ve spent many hours praying for you. It means I grieve when you’re hurting. It means I’ve wept tears for you when you’re going through hardship. It means I relish in seeing you succeed. It means I’m thinking of you and talking about you in the middle of busy and hectic days.

I know our journey together will have more ups and downs. Just know I’m happy to be on this journey helping you grow into the woman you were born to be.

I love you, baby girl. I always will.

Couple of gut punches this week.

Tuesday night I took mom to the ER because of stroke symptoms. We returned home at 4am. Thankfully by that time the symptoms had subsided. We’ve got more labwork and imaging to do to hopefully find out what happened.

Big brother has been in the hospital again for the last week. Coincidentally, he has been getting tests done to rule out a stroke. They’re apparently also concerned about his heart, spleen, and he is still fighting off some infection. It’s all wearing on him.

I feel the need to be there for everyone but also the desire to withdraw and isolate. There’s been a lot of pouring out recently and I’m pretty empty. It’s all wearing on me too.

Super Bowl Sunday should be a fun time to gather with friends, but I want a quieter house this weekend. CrossFit class is about to start and I don’t want to walk in early and engage in conversation.

I’m thankful for a healthy routine of habits, disciplines, relationships, and responsibilities that keep me grounded during times like this. I remind myself I am not alone.