Mending a Broken Track

Charlie called me today, wondering how my project’s coming along. He’s been checking in with Dad every few days and knew full well that my project has not been coming along. That is, not my Philadelphia project.

As to the deeper project, the project of myself and my dad, so much has taken place.

For three weeks now, I’ve been spending time with Dad and Mom. His radiation treatments ended today. Three weeks of daily trips to U. Penn., new pictures each day, followed by an hour of setup—all in preparation for each day’s mere seconds of radiation. The pictures look better. The blockage is open. But frankly, Dad’s only weaker. He is eating more, and Mom and I are glad about that.

I guess I was not really surprised to hear from Charlie. As much as he understands the fact that I’m going through a difficult time with my dad, he really doesn’t understand. He’s my boss, and he expects me to show him something for all this time. I think he’s losing his patience. I understand more now about Charlie’s sense of indebtedness to my dad. Dad asked him to do this, so he’s doing it. But I sense the day is coming very soon when Charlie will have had enough. So be it!

What I have been surprised about is how often I’ve heard from so many others, especially my new friends here in Philly.

New friends! Makes it sound like I had a bunch of old ones, which I’m realizing now that I really didn’t.

Will has stopped in to see Dad and me almost every day. Ali’s stopped by several times and phoned frequently. Dad and I have both gotten cards and notes, and Stephen Cray sent flowers. Even Martin and Dorothy have both stopped by, to my great surprise. And most interestingly, Anna Park has called me a few times to ask how I’m doing. Her calls have meant a lot to me, these gestures of kindness so clearly not required of her.

And none of them have asked about my research. They just wanted to offer comfort and kindness to me. It makes me cry to think about it, something, candidly, that I’ve been doing a lot lately.

So my journal’s been totally neglected for three weeks. In fact, I’m no longer sure of its value for anyone but me. It has become very personal—too personal, I think, to serve the purpose Charlie first had in mind.

Before any more time passes, I want to try to capture what’s been going on between Dad and me—what’s been occupying my days and nights over these weeks.

For the first couple of days with Dad, between going with him for his treatments and trying to help him and Mom at home, I tried to use part of my time to organize my notes. I’d collected a lot of material that I needed to think through, but it was just not coming together for me. I finally decided to leave it alone. So I pushed myself more into taking care of Dad. It was very uncomfortable for both of us at first. We are not used to spending that kind of time together, and Dad was clearly embarrassed about how weak and dependent he had become. It must be especially difficult for him, given his lifelong role as the man in charge, the man on top.

My own discomfort shames me. I’ve spent a lifetime wanting to be closer to my dad, but the truth is that being close to him does not come easy for me. More truth: I don’t think I’ve ever been good at being close to anyone. When Susan left me ten years ago, I didn’t understand what her problem was. And I thought it was her problem. For the first time since that awful experience, I doubt that it was her problem. “I just feel I can’t get close to you” is what she kept saying. And I dismissed it. This hurts and shames me deeply; she wanted to be close to me.

In the here and now, though, I’m also feeling proud of myself. Discomfort or no, I have pushed myself to help provide for Dad’s physical care, and I’ve begun to feel a deepening satisfaction from it. I help him walk, feed him when he can eat, and keep his room clean. Lately, I’ve started helping him to shave. I feel useful to him, and it feels good. After these many days so close together, we have begun to really talk. And as I said already, I’ve begun to cry, sometimes a lot, often when I’m back in my room after spending the day with Dad. Deep feelings have been coming to the surface for me that I have not allowed myself to feel for a very long time.

One morning last week, Dad and I launched into a long and winding discussion about the years of my growing up. Soon we had every family album open on his bed. It was wonderful. Outside it was raining so hard that at times the thrumming of rain on our roof sounded like a waterfall. Another waterfall of goodness.

“Remember when we had that old Volkswagen camper and you welded an extra bed into it so I could take a friend along on our trips?”

“Sure, I remember it, Mike.”

“One of my best memories growing up was when you and I would go out and sleep overnight in the VW, just in our driveway.” Dad’s eyes misted, a deeply grateful smile on his face. “Those were such good times. We’d really talk. It feels a lot like that now,” I added.

“I’m so glad you came home, Son,” Dad answered. “I’m glad we have this time together to talk again.”

“A little later, when you’re feeling better, I’d like to go through all these pictures of you and Mom and have you tell me the stories of what was going on in your life during those times. I’d like to put a little note on the back of each of these pictures.”

“That’s a good idea,” Dad said, sounding a little doubtful. “But didn’t you say that later is going to have to be sooner? I’m thinking it’s going to need to be real soon.”

I glanced up and caught Dad’s eye. We just looked at each other for a long moment.

“Mike,” he continued, clearing his throat. “I have to ask you a question that’s been on my mind for many years.” He paused again before continuing. “What are your memories and feelings from your growing-up years here in Philly?”

“Well,” I stammered, needing to decide how to answer him. “They’re mostly happy, Dad,” I offered tentatively.

“But there was sadness, too, wasn’t there?”

I nodded.

“I wish so much that we had taken more times like this, Mike. Times together. I didn’t give you what a son needs from his father.”

“I was always proud of you,” I protested. “You were definitely my hero growing up. You always bought me neat toys,” I added lamely. I sat still for a moment, considering whether to say what I was really feeling. I decided it was now or never. “To be honest, though,” I said more slowly, less certainly, “I would have preferred just to have more of you.”

Dad was still for a moment, absorbing my comment.

“I deserve that,” he said with a heavy sigh, his chin slumping a little bit more into his chest. “I’ve really needed to talk about this with you.” He reached over and touched my arm to make his point, looking up at me. “I’ve got real regrets, Mike. I haven’t been a perfect dad. Not even close. I think, in part, I bought you those things to try to assuage my guilt over our lack of time together. I could tell when you were going through struggles, and I guess I hoped your mother would take care of those things. I tried to give you advice—to be your coach—but I wasn’t much of a listener. I guess I delegated my work as a father to your mom, and I know now that it doesn’t work that way.

“Do you remember the Michael stories I used to tell you?” Dad asked hopefully.

“Sure, I remember them. You used to start them with ‘Once upon a time, there was a boy named Mike,’ and then you’d tell a story about how to stay away from strangers or how to watch out for myself. I loved those stories!”

“Well, I guess that was my attempt to give you fatherly advice. But I never really talked with you about what was going on. I regret that so much. The real reason I wanted you to come home to work with me on these projects was so you and I could talk about this. I have something important to ask you.” Dad straightened himself up in his bed.

I sat very still, waiting, not knowing what I was about to hear.

“Will you forgive me for all those times I wasn’t there for you?” Dad’s eyes were brimming over with tears, his face filled with grief.

“Oh, Dad,” I almost wailed. “Of course I forgive you. You’ve been terrific!”

“No, please, don’t sugarcoat it! I haven’t been!”

I wasn’t sugarcoating it. Yes, I’d felt abandoned as a child. But all I could feel in this moment was that my dad had been terrific. That I was terrifically lucky to have him as my dad. To still have him.

I put my arms around him, and for a long moment we squeezed each other hard, both our shirts damp from the other’s tears.

“You haven’t lost all your strength,” I offered playfully. “You about broke my back.”

He just snorted, grateful, I think, for the lightened mood. By the look on his face, though, he was clearly not finished with all he wanted to say.

“I really am proud of you, Dad.” I pressed on. “I was proud of your career, and I’m even prouder of what you’re doing now. I think you’re making a real difference here in the city, and it means the world to me that you wanted to bring me into it.”

Dad responded slowly, “That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. I do feel good about the difference we’re making with Serving Leadership here. But on the other hand, I feel a terrible heaviness about it.”

I was confused and must have done a good job of showing it on my face.

“Not about the work in the city,” he quickly explained. “My heaviness comes from seeing how wide the gulf is between my public life and my family life.”

Now I got it, and I never loved my dad more.

“I tout Serving Leadership, and I never really served you and your mom! Not really. I’d march out there onto the grand stage representing all those virtues, and all the while I was missing the boat so badly where it mattered most. The more I work to serve others in the community, the more I can’t think of anything else except all those soccer games I missed or the train set we never finished in the basement or the hundreds of other things I don’t even know about. I’ve felt like such a hypocrite.” He finished imploringly, his voice almost a whisper now.

A lifetime of misunderstanding rearranged itself in my heart in that moment. Dad had always been proud of me. Dad had always wanted to be with me. All those times that I wasn’t able to get his approval, those times I’d look over at him hoping to catch his approving eye, his glances away weren’t because he was ashamed of his son; they were because he was ashamed of himself. All I can say is “Wow!” My dad has struggled with many of the very same things I’ve always struggled with.

“Look at me, Dad,” I said, surprised at my assertiveness. Dad’s confession made me feel like a man, not like a lost and hopeless boy. “I forgive you,” I said emphatically, lovingly. “I assure you that you don’t need it, because I absolutely hold no blame in my heart toward you. But I want you to know it clearly. I totally forgive you!”

My dad looked at me with peace and satisfaction shining from his eyes. He took a deep breath, a good breath, and just kept looking at me.

“Thank you, Son,” he said simply.

I can’t express how good it felt to have him look at me the way he did—and speak to me the way he did. Like he was pleased with me.

I took my own deep breath, took in what I was being given, and prepared myself.

“I’ve got a confession, too.”

Dad wasn’t slumped over anymore. His gaze was level, his kind eyes welcoming whatever it was that I needed to say.

“Some of those nice things that you and Mom bought for me, I not only didn’t appreciate them but set out to destroy them. I had the neatest new wagon in the neighborhood, but I popped the wheels off to ruin it.”

Dad smiled. He seemed glad for the truth.

“I found those wheels and what was left of the wagon, too. I never did understand what had happened.”

“There were feelings behind what I did, Dad.”

He nodded. Of course there were.

“And that great train set you got for me that seemed to cover the world. When I was angry with you, I’d start breaking it apart. I loved that train set, but what I really loved was our time working on it together. When you weren’t around, I’d go down to the basement and take out my anger on those trains. I was angry with you and I never told you. I wasn’t ever really fair with you. I just kept my feelings hidden.

“I’ve broken other things, too,” I plowed on, needing to get it all out on the table. “I’ve never been exactly open about my feelings as an adult, either. And I never asked you for help when I needed it. I know that you and Mom were terribly disappointed about what happened to my marriage, but I just kept you away.

“I felt like I was just a failure—that there was a stigma attached to me. That’s when I stopped going to church. I didn’t belong there. I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere, to tell you the truth.” Now it was my turn to cry.

“I’m so sorry, Mike.”

“Hey, it’s supposed to be my turn to say that I’m sorry,” I blurted out, laughing through my tears. “And I am sorry, Dad.”

“Mike, our hearts were broken when you struggled in your marriage. We love you so much and only wanted to stand by your side. The church only wanted that, too. None of us are perfect.”

Dad and I talked a long time that night about hurt feelings and missed opportunities. This was a huge breakthrough for me. I started to realize how I’d managed my life in order to protect myself from the hurt, how I’d pushed people away, not letting them get too close where they could hurt me. Being with my dad that night—seeing both of us in a new light—allowed me to see how I needed to heal my relationships with others.

Later that night, after Dad had gone to bed, I started the first of a series of phone calls seeking forgiveness from people I’ve walked away from, that I’ve hurt or offended or lied to. My first call was to Susan. She sounded really apprehensive, and then she understood what I was doing. We cried and laughed, and she told me how happy she is, how much she loves her children, that it’s a good marriage. I wished her all the best, and I meant it. She wished me well, too. I hung up with a great pain in my heart. And a great release.

I made other calls that night, and I was so surprised and grateful for the reactions I got. People were quick to forgive and happy to reset the clock in our relationship. A burden’s being lifted from my heart.

During our morning cup of coffee, I shared these phone calls with my dad.

“Thank you, Dad. If you hadn’t taken the step that you did to bring healing to our relationship, I wouldn’t be doing this. I wouldn’t know how.” I gave him a moment to absorb this. Then I smiled. “So you’ve gone right ahead and brought all that goodness you’ve been sharing around Philadelphia right back into your home. That’s Serving Leadership, Pop. At least if I’ve got the concept right.”

Dad just shook his head. I really liked the way he was looking at me.

“You remember that train trip we took together?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I loved it,” I exclaimed, “especially because it was an overnight trip, and we had that sleeper car. It’s one of the times I remember that we really talked.”

“Do you remember the plans we made while we looked out the window?”

“How we were going to build our own new train set in the basement,” I answered, aware again of so much that we’d lost.

“Well, if you’ll help me navigate the stairs, I’ve got something I want to show you.” I opened the door and helped Dad down into the dark basement. There, laid out like a perfect little city, was a replica of my old electric train empire. It was like going back through a time warp. It looked perfect, like the days we had worked on it together.

“Dad, what’s this? You got another one just like my old Lionel set?”

“Not at all, Mike,” Dad beamed. “It’s the original! I’ve been thinking about you and me getting reconnected now for several years. Shame on me that it took what it took for it to happen. But that’s not important anymore, is it?”

I shook my head. It wasn’t important.

“Well, I’ve spent quite a lot of time down here—not lately, of course—putting this set back together. I fixed the tracks, repaired some of the buildings, bought some parts, and rebuilt the whole thing. Mending this old train night after night helped me think through the mending we needed to do. There’s still a bit more to do before we can turn the power back on, and I had hoped that we could do it together.”

“I’ll finish what you started, Dad,” I said. “You can count me in!”