Wholly My Dad

So today’s the day. On this day, 4 years ago, my dad died. Rather unceremoniously, surrounded by my mom, my aunt, and my half-brother. Pieces from his many lives.  Memories personified.

Every other year, I’ve felt deeply in the days leading up to and following this day. Passionate anger, heart-wrenching sadness, grief that consumed my body and mind. This year I feel nothing. But perhaps nothing is my peace.

My dad and I did not have a traditional relationship. His demons separated him from my mom and ultimately me. While his intentions were always admirable, his actions were not. My dad’s best years coincided with the years I don’t remember. Chubby legs wriggling out of diapers. Preschool Halloween parties. Birthdays with single candles.

With every fiber of my being I want to remember. But I don’t. I look at old photos and pretend. I write myself into a fiction. And my best attempts to reconcile that narrative with my reality fail. Crash and burn. Only shine a spotlight on what my dad lacked.

This makes processing his life and death difficult. I don’t have many positive memories to scroll through like a Hallmark movie rolodex. I have memories that are strained, awkward, anxiety producing. I never had the chance to sit with my dad, to ask questions, to learn about him as a person. I’m left with my photos, my narrative, and my reality. Which I fit together like a jigsaw puzzle bartered at a yard sale; missing critical pieces that leave the image decipherable, but incomplete.

Throughout this journey of mourning, which began during his life and continues after his death, I’ve tried to categorize my dad to, in turn, understand my feelings toward him. If he’s a loser, then I can be angry and dismissive and if he’s a misunderstood creative, then I can boast of his potential. But if he’s just my dad, then what can I do?

If he was all those things and none of those things and a thousand other things. What do I do then? What do I do if my dad was simply human? Then I’m left with every emotion on the spectrum. I can feel both colossally disappointed in him and miss him terribly; extremely angry at him and wanting to talk to him.

So on this anniversary, maybe my peace comes from dipping my toe into into this truth. That my dad was human, just as I am. That he was flawed, just as I am. But despite, or perhaps because of, his shortcomings, he loved. Loved me, his church, his Maker. And he’s gone home now. To the place that makes him whole. No longer lacking. No longer incomplete. Wholly himself. Wholly my dad.