Updated December 29, 2009
 www.lovecounts.net

The first memory I have of my father is when I was nine. Dad was on a wild, drunken rampage. The whole family vacated the premises because it just plain wasn't safe to stick around. Mom was driving aimlessly around with my brother and I, trying to decide what to do. Then, Mother, in her wisdom, decided that since I was the baby, and hence had a soft spot in Dad's heart, I should go in and talk to him. So, little, pig- tailed me went into the lion's den, sat on his lap, and sang "Jesus Loves Me". The lion cried.

Other memories... Father, drunk at the kitchen table, telling me to have a little respect, and snotty eleven year old that I was, replied, "Where you're concerned, respect is a word in the dictionary." "Ouch", he said, "that hurt."

Father, not drunk, not sober, hitting my brother with a kitchen pot against the patio wall. Again and again and again.  Me, watching through the window, crying in bitter, helpless silence.

Father: sober, he hid away in the bedroom with a book and a pitcher of milk - conversation was a grunt.  Drunk, he was maudlin, talkative and abusive in turn. Drunk or sober, when he said jump, we asked how high.

I was twelve when Father left Mom for another woman, an alcoholic like himself.  An unhappy time.  Mom, broken in heart and spirit; our lovely house lost to the mortgage company.  The family split apart, my brother and I going to separate homes.  Loyalties divided and blame placed and then replaced.  Loving and hating my father all at the same time, I was too young to realize that what I thought I had lost, I never had in the first place.

Fourteen: Father testifying in Court against Mother so that I was warded to my sister's custody. Then, after not seeing or talking with him for months, he made a special trip to tell me that if I ever told my mother to shut up again, I would have to deal with him.  Guess some people have a funny way of showing they care.

Eighteen: In trouble and in desperate need of help, I went to my father.  He slammed the door in my face.

So began the cold, totally fatherless years when I spoke to him only when good manners demanded, and every drunk brought bitter memories and contempt.  I persuaded myself in those years that what I felt for my father was apathy - that I just didn't care whether he lived or died.  I didn't allow myself to recognize the truth until I was thirty years old.

The truth was that my father had had an overwhelming, negative influence on my life.  I came to realize that before I could come to terms with myself as a person, I would somehow have to dissolve the hard, cold, bitter stone of hatred in the core of my soul.  It wasn't easy.

It could never have happened if we hadn't received word from Mom that Dad was sober.  At that, it took about twenty hours of talking to my sister on the trip back from San Francisco.  And, being totally honest with myself.  We went to see Dad the day after we arrived in Vancouver.  I knew if I put it off, I wouldn't have the courage to do what I had resolved to do - make peace.

After twelve years of virtual silence, I sat there across from my father at the kitchen table choking on pride, the years of bitterness and rediscovered love.  I must have communicated something of what I felt (maybe the tears on my cheeks gave him a clue), because he got up from the table and just stood there with his arms open.  It was the first time my father had ever hugged me, let alone let me get his shirt all wet with my tears.

In the following months there were many firsts with my father, not the least of which were the long hours of conversation getting to know each other and making up for the lost years.  We discovered that we liked as well loved each other and were very much father and daughter, sharing many common interests, traits of character and ideas.

Forgiving has made the world a better place to live - for both of us.