I Cannot Tell His Story

Peace Through Perspective

I can’t tell his story. But I can change mine.

Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart. 1 Samuel 16:7

What I knew about my dad was that he was a master sergeant in the Marines. He trained paratroopers. He was injured on a jump when one of the lines sliced him, leaving a scar across his abdomen. Although he never identified himself as an alcoholic, I know he drank a lot, and when he drank, he got drunk. And when he was drunk, he was often mean and violent. That’s what I experienced growing up. There were times when he wasn’t like that. But there were many times when he was. He was estranged from his biological children, and I believe he carried resentment from that into our home. For most of my life, that’s the story I told myself about him.

As I’ve gone through recovery, I’ve started to see how much of that experience shaped me. He demanded things be done right. Not just done, but done perfectly. I remember washing his diesel truck and missing a few spots on the grill. He inspected my work and instead of having me fix that one area, I had to wash the entire rig again. Hours of work, over something small. The same thing happened with mowing the lawn. It had to be cross cut, then diagonal cut. It had to be done a certain way, and if it wasn’t right, I had to start over. That mindset stayed with me. I learned to strive for perfection. I learned that getting it wrong meant starting over. And while that shows up today in doing things well, it also shows up as pressure and an impossible standard I can’t always meet. I have learned those were unrealistic expectations.

After I got into recovery and started working through the steps my sponsor pointed out something I didn’t want to see or admit. He said that I seemed to have a hatred for my dad. I denied it. I was a Christian and I didn’t have hate in my heart for anybody. But as I worked through the steps, I found that there was hatred in my heart for him. My sponsor suggested I do a fourth step just on my dad. So I did. It was a very long fourth step. It took me months.

In doing that, I realized something that changed everything for me. I cannot tell my dad’s story. Outside of what I experienced, I knew very little about him. That helped me begin to see him as a person instead of a monster. I’m not excusing what he did. But when I started to understand there was more to him than what I saw, I began to develop compassion for him. I just wish I had come to that place before he passed.

Recovery has given me a way to make amends to him even though he’s no longer here. I make a living amends by changing how I live. By letting go of the resentment. By choosing to see the good in him and not defining him by his struggle with alcohol. By accepting him as my dad, the man who raised me. Most of my life I called him my stepdad. I kept that distance. Today, I call him my dad. I love him for who he was, not what I wished him to be. And there is a peace in that I can’t fully explain. That is the gift of recovery for me.

Prayer

Father, help me to be honest about what’s in my heart. Give me the courage and strength to let go of the resentments and pain I’ve carried, and help me offer forgiveness instead. Thank You for the healing and peace that comes with that. Amen.